Back Stories Book II
by mal4prez
Summary: While the crew pursues a cure to the captain's ills, Mal's deteriorating mental condition has Zoë revisiting her past. Inara dredges up her own memories as she races Alliance agents in the hunt for Serenity.
1. Chapter 1

**Back Stories Book II**

_The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money._

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Well, Book 2 is just about done, so it's time to post! I think it'll be 20 chapters, unless my beta readers disagree with where I'm planning on breaking it - they haven't seen the last chapter yet. I'll try to post chapters every few days.

This is a continuation of The Fish Job, Easy Tickets, and Back Stories Book I. This series of fics follows Objects in Space and doesn't attempt to tie into the movie. It's rated R for dark themes, violence, and a bit of sex. Pairings are canon, even when they might seem to be going astray. Really, my top priority is to keep everyone in character.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. It's no easy thing to proofread this much material!_

_Many additional thanks to readers who've put me on their favorites lists. It's nice to know you're reading and enjoying! I occasionally question my sanity because of how long this fic has gone on – two and a half years now I've been pegging away at it when real life allows. Good lord, that's a long time! But crazy is okay if I'm not alone in it, right? Right? ;) _

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Chapter 1.

Landsdowne Docks, Persephone 

Inara carefully guided her transport into a narrow berth on the shabbier end of the docks. It wasn't the kind of landing she was used to; the better platforms weren't available for lowly craftspeople stocking up on supplies. That's what she was passing as: a craftsmen. A weaver.

Really, it was ridiculous. The only yarn available hereabouts would be made of dog hair. Mangy, flea-ridden dog hair. And yet, her story had been easily accepted by the landing security personnel.

It made her feel oddly buoyant. As a Companion, Inara had always transmitted everything she was asked for – proof of identification, rights to landing, license to practice her trade. She'd never imagined anything other than prompt compliance to the stern voices of authority. The crew of _Serenity_ deserved the credit for teaching her differently, for letting her know how easily the rules could bend. All it would take was a inflated "fee," paid in cash at the dock offices, and no questions would be asked.

She shut the flight systems down, then, for what seemed the hundredth time, entered _Serenity_'s code into the cortex. A long moment later, the screen flashed:

RECIPIENT NOT FOUND.

_The system's been shut off_, she insisted to herself. Maybe Mal knew that he was being sought after, or maybe it was the nature of the job he was doing for Badger. If only Kaylee had written more detail in her letter…

Inara reached into an inner pocket of her cape and closed her hand over the small envelope. It had become almost a talisman, her one small link to the crew of the Firefly. A few words from Kaylee, words that had tried to be light-hearted and casual, but Inara had sensed the worry underneath them. Worry for Mal.

It made Inara impatient to find him, to make up for leaving his ship in such a hurtful way. She stood and took a quick step toward the hatch, but a glance at the clock on the console made her stop. It was too early in the morning local time to venture out; the docks would still be empty at this hour. She couldn't risk drawing attention to herself, not with Marone and the OPR agents likely hoping to find her and finish their interviews. Inara'd only feel safe in a thick crowd, even with her carefully crafted disguise.

She had to smile as she looked down and ran her hands lightly over her new clothes. It'd been a long time since she dressed to hide her figure rather than accentuate it. She'd been fortunate enough to find an open bargain store during her late night dash through the streets of Sihnon, and the pieces she'd bought would certainly discourage attention. The black boots were her own and fit well, but the brown trousers were so baggy that she needed a belt to hold them up. The dark reddish-brown shirt was also big and formless. A cape of dark grey worsted wool with a frayed and stained hem covered it all; the hood on the cape would hide her face. She had left off makeup, but knew that she was still striking enough to draw eyes. She'd have to keep her head down and speak sparingly. And when she reached Badger…

Inara sighed and sank back into the pilot's chair. She still hadn't settled on an approach to use with him. He wasn't likely to recognize her; they'd seen each other once, but for only an few seconds. Badger had been focused on Mal at the time, checking that captain had gotten the precious smuggling job from Sir Warren. And, actually, Inara'd had most of her attention on Mal as well, on helping him walk…

"Don't think about that!" she ordered herself in a whisper, as the memory of Mal's body against hers came back with a wrenching clarity – her arm encircling his ribs, feeling his breath catch at the pain of his stab wounds even as he light-heartedly mocked his "lazy crew."

She rubbed at her eyes, pushing the memory away. She had no time for it; she had to focus on Badger. A man like him would understand only two things – money, and violence. She wasn't the most threatening figure; unless she flaunted her Companion status, she had no power.

Money, then. She'd have to tempt Badger with a job – something believable, something that had to be handled only by the crew of _Serenity_. It should promise enough profit to make Badger eager to contact the crew, and not carry any danger that would scare him off...

She glanced again at the clock on the console; it would be at least an hour before the crowd on the docks was thick enough for her to feel safe venturing out. She had time to plan.

o-o-o

"_Badger_. Sounds ominous, doesn't it?" Will shook his head and laughed dismissively. "You be ready for action, Ginger honey. I think we got us a real crime lord on our hands."

He laughed again as he strode through the docks. The crowd was thin; it was still mid-morning, local time, and he had plenty of room to stretch his long legs. Ginger had to trot to keep up with him, but she had reason to stay close. She meant to have a bit of a conversation before they got to their appointment.

"Shouldn't be hard to make him talk," she said. "A little threat of Alliance attention to his business ought to open him up fine."

Will turned his head to look down at her, squinting against the clear sunlight coming over the edge of the dock walls. "Now, that is why I don't let you run things," he said, then he lowered his voice. "We aren't here as agents of the law, you damned fool, not as far as anyone we speak to can know." He held her eyes with a look of warning for a second, then turned his head front again. "But no worries. I don't need to play that card. I can make anyone talk."

Ginger pressed her lips together – this was the thing that had her worried. But she'd done some checking up on the trip out here, and she had an idea. "You know, Will," she said casually, "there's these regulation kind'a things that apply to folks like me and you."

He glanced at her again, his eyes sharp and his smile fading. "That so?"

"So it is. I can show you the statute. It says that undercover officers got to be careful, can't do nothin' that folks'll make a fuss and sue about. There's things can be done to get information – trickery and such – but if that don't work the suspect has got to be arrested and taken in for safe kinds of interrogation. Won't take us long to get this Badger fella over to the base, or even in to the Core, if need be."

Ginger held her chin up, pleased that all those words had come out just like she'd planned. She'd stated the situation as fact, in a public place, so Will'd have no choice but to go along. He couldn't go attracting attention and spoiling a mission.

She should have known that a man like Will wouldn't just let it go over easy. Sure enough, his steps slowed down. He was staring down at her – staring hard.

"You can't be serious," he said, his voice low like he was making a challenge.

Ginger'd planned this next part, too, but his stare was making her uncomfortable, and her words came out weaker than she'd hoped. "I'm just sayin'… you ought to be a little more careful. Could be that one of these days word'll get back. Could be that someone'll hear about how you go about things, and decide that… maybe it ain't right."

Will came to a full stop. "And how exactly would anyone be hearing tales about me, Ginger? Are you saying _you'll_ tell? Are you trying to threaten me?"

Ginger had to drop her eyes away, and she felt uncertainty broiling up in her chest. She'd planned to be cool and serious about this, but suddenly she felt like a little girl reciting arithmetic in front of a classroom full of bullies. She felt like she was about to be hit by a big, fat spitwad and laughed out of the room.

"I'm… I'm just – "

She was looking at the ground, so she didn't see him move, just felt his hand close around her arm. He pushed her back against a dusty corrugated metal wall. She wasn't expecting that; she hadn't thought that he'd push her around.

"By God I won't have anyone telling me how to do my business," he said. His face was up close to hers so he could keep his voice quiet, but his words had an angry shake that made her cringe. "Sure as hell, I won't take it from an ignorant fool like you. You've spent your life with your head buried up the ass-end of some gun or another, and you have no idea how things work in real life. You think those asinine rules apply to _me_?"

Ginger opened her mouth to argue, but couldn't. This game was over her head. She surely had little idea how the system really worked; what had she ever done but follow orders without question?

Will's hand tightened on her arm. "Think about it – how long have we been working together? How long have I been going about my business, exactly how I do it? You really think those suits sitting in their neat and tidy offices care? I guarantee they don't. They know what I'm willing to do, and that's why they send me – because I get it done. I do whatever the hell's needed to get. The job. Done."

He gave her arm one more hard squeeze, hard enough to make her gasp as a nerve in her elbow twinged.

"You want to tell stories about me? Go ahead. I won't have to squash you myself, the department will do it for me, to protect me. They need me, and they know it. You need to figure it out, too. I am getting sick and tired of this new attitude of yours."

He let go and turned his back on her, not seeming to notice the few onlookers who'd stopped to watch the quiet spat. Ginger stayed where she was for a long moment, staring after him. Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because a toothless old man sitting across the way yelled out at her:

"Go on and shoot him, missie! Don't be lettin' any fella treat ya like that!"

Will didn't pause or look back. His cockiness made her wilt – he knew she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't take her freedom at the cost of being a criminal, hunted down and locked up for murdering her own partner. Will might be able to break the rules and get away with it, but she couldn't.

The unfairness of it made her right hand tighten, and she realized that, despite herself, she was clutching the butt of the gun on her hip. She took in a deep breath and made herself relax and drop her arm.

So it was – she had to finish this job. She bit her tongue as she hurried to catch up.

o-o-o

Highland's second moon 

Shepherd Book stood in a quiet mist that fell from the gray sky, watching _Serenity_'s engines fire. The moment would be more poetic if the clouds would part to give a glimpse of Highgate's nearby disc in the sky above, allowing him to watch the ship rise toward its destination, but that wasn't likely. The drizzle was settled in like it meant to never let up.

He lowered his gaze and saw all the poetry he needed; Zoë was on the other side of the campsite, her silhouette framed against the flare of the ship's engines. The sight reminded him of heart-breaking epics of the ancient wars on Earth-that-Was, of Woman standing in solitary and silent pain as her men went to battle.

But Zoë didn't fit that role, not for more than a few seconds of illusion. Even before the ship disappeared into the low clouds, she turned away and went to the pile of supplies, her face expressionless as she dug out a bag. Book knew full well that Zoë wasn't one to wait in a safe place while a battle was fought elsewhere, and that made him wonder if the real crisis was happening here, on this hard moon. The idea brought him a chill.

"I'll gather firewood," he told Zoë. "Best get it done while the rain is light."

She looked up and considered him for a few seconds. "That's a fine idea, Shepherd," she said. "I'll join you."

"But the captain… ?" Book looked over to Mal, who was lying on the mat Kaylee had set up for him.

"He won't be making trouble for a spell – doc's meds took care of that. Let's just be sure the gear's under cover from the wet. And dig out a lamp; we'll need it down yonder."

Book peered down the hill into the narrow valley that held their main source of heat: low, stunted trees crowded together, making a deep black shadow. The slope that lead to them was covered in mossy stones; it wasn't going to be an easy chore.

It was over an hour before they finally sat down at a crackling fire. The rain had never gone past a thick bone-chilling mist, but it'd still taken ten minutes' effort to light the blaze. Fortunately, the wood was dense, and once it caught it burned with a long, slow heat. The pile of dead wood they'd gathered and split would last a while, long enough for them to warm up and have a meal.

The sun above the clouds had hardly moved, not as far as Book could tell. He'd been expecting that. This rocky little moon was tidally locked, and it would take a full orbit around Highgate before a local day passed. That'd be nearly three weeks, standard. He didn't expect to be here more than a day or two, and that would hardly move them on toward evening.

Their meal was heated protein paste. Neither of them had the energy to prepare more, not after all their labors. They ate in tired silence until Mal sat up.

"Where's my ship?" he demanded as his eyes swept the area. "How the hell'd she take off?"

Book looked toward Zoë – he meant to leave all handling of the captain to her.

"You hungry, sir?" she asked.

Mal's gaze settled on her. "I ain't… " he started, then he sat still a few seconds, clearly confused. "But I saw her take off. She ain't ready for that."

"She's runnin' just fine."

He considered that for a second, then frowned at her. "You find a mechanic when I wasn't lookin'?"

"Go back to sleep, sir."

Mal turned his scowl on Book, and the shepherd tensed. Mal didn't know him, and he'd made his feelings about being around a preacher clear. It didn't make Book feel real secure.

"Don't worry about it, sir," Zoë said before Mal could say anything more. "Sōng kuai – I got first watch."

The captain's reaction surprised Book; Mal nodded stupidly at her words, then laid down. The way he blearily did as Zoë said might have been funny, if it hadn't been such a tragic sign of his deterioration. Book shook his head sadly.

"It's the drugs," Zoë said softly a few minutes later. "Simon found somethin' he says might help. It'll make Mal groggy, but if it slows down the memory loss, it's worth it."

The captain wasn't quite done; his voice rose faintly from his bedroll. "Tell me the minute she gets back," he ordered.

Zoë raised her voice. "I will, sir. Right away."

Mal grunted approval, and that was the last they heard of him for a while.

They finished eating, and Book looked over the gear; a lot was left to be done. They'd need more shelter set up to keep them warm and day in this place. But Zoë made no move to get started – it seemed that she had some things on her mind. She poked a few more logs into the fire then sat back and stared at it.

Book set to fixing some of the precious coffee that some kind soul had tucked into the vittles box for them. The chores could wait; he'd be of more use just sitting by and keeping her company in her ruminations. He'd always been good at being quiet.

"Thank you, Shepherd," she said when he handed her a steaming mug.

"Méi shén me," he replied, and sat back with his own coffee. But the long silence he was expecting didn't come.

"He's gonna miss that ship," Zoë said. "Even if he don't know it, he'll be missin' it."

"Yes, I can see that."

"You know," she said, continuing on like she was hardly aware that Book had spoken, "we went by all kinds of worlds after the war. Tried to settle in. Didn't find a single place that was home until Mal got _Serenity._"

Book didn't reply, just sipped from his mug and watched the pale flames dance.

"There was the after-war stuff," Zoë said, and she waved a hand like she was pushing the _after-war stuff_ off to disappear with the fire's thin smoke. Book wasn't a man to pry, but he found himself wishing she'd pull those stories back, wipe the dust off them and let him have a look.

She went on. "All that left us wantin' to get clear of most places. Wantin' to stay away from anything Alliance, and that ruled out a lot. We started our travels right after the first U-Day…." She paused and shook her head, then her face broke into a smile that was more melancholy than anything. "Mal never did handle U-Day well. Not from the very first one."

"Oh?" Book prompted, but her answer went in a different direction than he hoped. She moved the story forward in time, rather than backward.

"After the first U-Day, we worked a freighter for a while. With Monty. He's a good man, and we kept busy enough. Didn't deal with the Alliance much, didn't have to do nothin' but carry goods, and from time to time stand behind Monty lookin' scary, if we were dealin' with folks we didn't trust.

"Didn't have to do any shootin', not in those days. In the year or two after the war, things happened real quiet. Any gunplay could be reported as an uprising, so even the slimiest of black market crooks thought real hard before playin' dirty. Jobs were pretty easy. And there was plenty to do, what with all the rebuilding.

"But takin' orders and keepin' his mouth shut weren't things Mal was ever good at."

"Ain't blowing that over," Mal interjected in a sleepy voice. "Mix it up right, ain't nothin' gonna break it…."

Zoë didn't answer this time; she just waited until Mal quieted, then she went on with her tale.

"Mal left Monty's freighter after a while. Did it tricky-like, too. I was caught up in a job, handling a transaction, and afterward Monty told me that Mal'd taken his leave. Never gave any warning, never even said good-bye. Irked me to no end."

Book couldn't help but smile as he nodded. He could see Mal doing as he pleased without allowing any chance for an argument, and it took no stretch of the imagination to figure how Zoë would have felt about that.

She seemed to think it necessary to explain, though.

"I'd made up my mind to keep an eye on him," she said, glancing over to the sleeping captain, "so I had a bit of worry at how he disappeared. But there wasn't much I could do about finding him. The 'verse is a big place, even if you're stayin' on the edge of it."

She drained her mug, then shifted forward to kneel by the fire so she could reach the pot and pour a refill. "After a time I left Monty's crew, thought I'd try living on solid ground for a while. Mal used to talk of ranching – not after the war, he never talked of his home after the war – but during, he spoke of it plenty. It didn't sound bad, makin' a living that way, so I thought I'd give it a go.

"I was working a ranch on… " She paused as she settled back in her seat, then looked sharply at Book. "Funny how you get in the habit of protectin' those you did crime with, since the Alliance is always looking to flex its muscles on anyone it can…" She stopped again and frowned, looking thoughtful. "I guess I gave Monty away."

Book shrugged. "I knew about him already."

Zoë nodded. "Guess you did – but there's more to come and I'm a mood to tell about it." She gave him another piercing look. "You'll do me and the captain a service if you'll leave everything you hear right in the place you heard it."

"I wouldn't dream of doing different."

Zoë held his eye for a second, then nodded and continued her tale. "Anyhow, I was workin' a ranch on Lian Jiunn for a few months when Mal showed up. Just walked in one night, and before I could properly give him a scolding he was off and talking wild, all lit up like he'd just found Christmas. He had plans and needed money to get it all going. A fair amount of money. He wouldn't tell me what it was for, though, just grinned like a kid with a damned fine secret."

Her face broke into a grin of her own. "You know, he got me all diverted with his mystery, and I never did tan his hide for disappearing like he did. Tricky wáng bā dàn.

"I told him he should join the ranch. Wasn't a lot of wages, but with a bunk and eats included, things added up. Long as you weren't stupid about what you did while visitin' town.

"But a spot as a ranch hand wasn't enough for Mal; I could tell it. He had plans. Didn't say what they were, but he was antsy as hell to get a fistful of money and get back to whatever it was he'd found. Rounding up cattle for a few months wasn't what he was after.

"The next day, he saddled up a filly and went out for a ride, gave the place a long look."

Zoë shifted a bit, as if walking through her past was causing her discomfort. She was silent until she found a spot where she could recline on a folded up blanket set against a rock. She gave her vest a tug to make it set on her body better, then leaned back and went on with a sigh. "You need to understand somethin', Shepherd – and I ain't just talkin' about Lian Jiunn – settlers on Border worlds live their lives accordin' to what they got on hand. They build their homes out'a what they can find, timbers and stones and such. These work just fine in some places, long as you don't mind the cold air creepin' in come winter."

Book might have interrupted to tell her that he understood that very well, but he figured it was best to let her tell it her own way.

"The place where I was livin' on Lian Jiunn had a monsoon season, and it wasn't a rare thing to see folk rebuildin' from scratch after the storms passed, and maybe buryin' those who got caught in the ruin.

"Some would say that's just life, but it was a bitter thing to see after the war. Thing is, the people who'd beat us, the ones who'd destroyed worlds just so they could put us down, made promises. They'd done all kinds of talking about how they brought 'civilization' and 'safety' with them, but all we saw were tax collectors and long lists of new laws, though it'd been near two years since the war ended.

"Mal knew this well, and he saw how it affected folks while he was out on his ride round the neighborhood. He got back that night with a fire in his eyes. He told me to contact Monty and see if the man would mind breakin' a few of the more serious laws if it got him some jingly coin in his pocket.

"Of course, Monty didn't mind. I'll tell you though – I wasn't so sure myself. I'd done lots of skirtin' the edges of what's legal, not askin' questions while I'd worked with Monty, but avoiding tariffs and inspections is a different thing from outright stealin'.

"Truth to tell, I think it ate at Mal a bit too. We weren't criminals, Shepherd. We never set out to be. Just kind'a happened that way."

Zoë's eyes caught a bit of the fire, glinting orange as her mouth curved into a humorless grin. "Well, I guess there were all those war crimes. But those would have counted for nothing, if we hadn't a' lost.

"The job Mal'd thought up seemed worth taking the step for real. Guess it was just the first start down a road that we're still on."

o-o-o

Five years ago, Hăiníng, Du-Khang

There isn't anything fancy about it. The goods they mean to steal don't exactly qualify as precious – there's no cash or jewels, nothing high tech, no weapons, not even any foodstuffs. And it's fairly low risk. They won't be going anywhere near a Alliance military base or security installment; in fact, they'll be staying on the low-rent side of town.

For all these reasons, Zoë's not too worried about being caught – it's all about moving fast and being untraceable.

The location is one she knows well. Hăiníng had once been a small Alliance outpost with all the fixings of a town to support its needs, but it'd been destroyed in a particularly nasty battle. The history books (which are already being written, just two years after the war ended) are putting the blame for the ruin squarely on the Independents, though those who'd been there to see it might have wondered. The rebels hadn't had much in the way of artillery at the time, but the Alliance troops had had plenty. And they hadn't hesitated to use it.

In any case, after the war the Alliance decided that Hăiníng was going to be rebuilt as the capitol of Du-Khang and the center for Alliance control on this part of the system. Contractors and workers were brought from the Core to handle the new and greatly expanded Alliance base, but in parts of the new city where secrecy wasn't an issue, a wider variety of workers were used. Even some Browncoats took part in the labors – which is how Mal and Zoë know the place so well.

_(Book looked over the fire, meeting Zoë's eyes with an unspoken question, but she only shook her head and went on.) _

They don't use Monty's ship for the actual crime. They dig up an Independent troop transport that had been abandoned on Lian Jiunn, and take a few weeks to fix its hurts and get it moving. Then Monty smuggles it onto Du-Khang, hidden in the hold of his bulky ship.

As the sun sets on the day of the job, Mal, Zoë, Monty, and four of Monty's crew put on their Independent uniforms. (It's fitting, Mal says.) They take their refinished transport into the Alliance's construction supply depot on the edge of the new city, dropping out of the night sky in the middle of a collection of warehouses. Mal and Zoë are out first, moving through the shadows with the easy teamwork they developed during the war, slipping back into it like not a day has passed. Within two minutes they've rounded up the security joes and piled them in a shed, bound and gagged. No one puts up a bit of fight; they aren't expecting this, and not a one of them are up to risking their lives to protect their employer's goods.

Zoë knows her way around these warehouses, and directs Monty's crew and their mules to the best stuff. High grade concrete is top of the list. Next, steel rebar and the largest and strongest wood beams, the kind one can't get out of the stunted trees that grow in the sickly environments of most Border worlds.

Then come the tools. Saws, shovels, picks: anything they can pile up in the transport. A bit later they're clearing out a shed of smaller items – boxes of galvanized steel hardware – when Zoë hears a hovercraft engine. A quick look around tells her that Mal is the only one of the crew missing; he's back at the transport, sorting the load to make more room. She tells the rest to finish up fast and slips out the door.

A hovercraft with two uniformed men is sitting about fifty meters away, and Mal's walking out to meet it, waving his hand all friendly-like. Zoë can't quite hear what's being said, but she can see that the guards are too confused to be making a fuss. Not yet anyway. The one in the passenger seat, the one closer to Mal, is catching on. He swivels his head between the sarge and the ship parked in the middle of the yard, taking in the scratched but clearly visible Independent flag painted on its side, and the open hold that's nearly full of construction supplies.

Zoë murmurs a curse and heads toward them, walking fast. The guard looks back at Mal, at the uniform and coat, and even from this distance Zoë sees realization light up his face.

She breaks into an all-out run as the guard with the lightbulb on barks orders at the driver of the hover, and his hand goes to his hip.

Before he can draw, Mal shoots him through the shoulder, taking out his right arm.

The driver of the hover starts to move the thing away, but at the sound of gunfire he drops the controls and dumps himself out of the far side of the craft, trying to shelter behind it. It's not a bright move, and makes Zoë wonder who exactly these idiots are.

Mal doesn't hesitate. He runs toward the vehicle in a low crouch and sends a few bullets into the space under it. The second guard goes down with a pained cry, clutching his lower leg.

Zoë's still a good twenty meters away when the sarge catches up to the slowly drifting hover and jumps in. The guard still in the craft has managed to draw his gun with his left hand, but he doesn't get to use it. Mal grabs the thing and throws it aside, then pops the guard in the head hard enough to knock him out.

The guard on the ground gets himself together enough to send off a few wild shots and Zoë draws as she dives to her stomach, losing a little elbow skin to the pavement on her way down. She's ready to take the second guard out, but Mal slides into the driver's seat and grabs the controls. The hover swerves sideways; as soon as it passes over the guard on the ground, Mal springs out and lands square on him.

Zoë scrambles up and continues on; she knows the kind of rage the sarge has in him, and this situation's clearly got his blood boiling. He's still raining down punches when she gets to him.

"It all right, Sarge!" she says, and catches Mal's raised fist. "You got 'em. We're clear!"

Mal gives up the fight immediately, but when he stands up he's breathing hard and his eyes are wild. He's spent too much time under the heels of "authority" on this world. They both have, in those months after the war, but Mal's seen the worst of it by far.

"Get the one in the hover," Zoë tells him. "I got this one."

She's relieved when Mal nods and does as she says – he's still got a scrap of his senses about him. They drag the guards into the shed with the others; on the way, Zoë notices that the uniforms these two newcomers wear aren't Alliance military. They're from some private security company, with badges made of plastic. That explains it – they've got no experience, probably haven't ever fired at anything but practice targets.

If Mal sees this and thinks anything of it, he shows no sign.

Monty and his men have been working fast, the sound of gunfire convincing them that what they've got is plenty, and the last load is arriving at the transport. Zoë sees that Mal's still got his blood running hot, and she tells him to go help. It's not that she doesn't trust him to stay with these people, bound and helpless as they are. But… actually, she doesn't.

This isn't the first time she's seen him vent the hate that's been piling up in him since the end of the war, and she doesn't want to see it coming out any more than it already has. These people have been beat on enough. Lifting heavy cargo seems the right thing for Mal, to let him work this thing off before he ends up shut inside a ship on the trip back to Lian Jiann.

"Go," she tells him firmly. "We got to move, someone's sure to have heard the shots. They need your help so we can be out of here, soon as we can."

Mal looks at the bound guards, a flicker of violence still burning in his eyes.

"We're gonna finish this job," she says firmly, "just so I can find out why the hell you want all this money."

Mal's eyes settle on her, and just like that the rage is gone. His eyes soften. "There is that," he says, a smile spreading across his face. "There certainly is that." He turns and leaves the shed at a run.

o-o-o

"We got away clear, can you believe it?" Zoë said with a wry smile. "The first job the captain pulled, and one of the smoothest. None of ours got hurt, we got a full load of goods, and they had no clue who we were. Reports on the cortex said it was some raid by the Underground. They thought we were trying to build a base somewhere. It never even occurred to them that we'd be out to help folks have better houses and barns. It's not something the Alliance ever put any importance on, so…." She shrugged.

"When we got back to Lian Jiunn, Mal made us sell the stuff cheap. We didn't give it away – he ain't a fool – but we sold it for a fraction a'what we'd have got on a more settled world. Concrete like that…." She smiled again and shook her head. "The homes those folk got'll be there till your God comes raining down fire, Shepherd. Still be standin' the next day."

Book nodded. "And did he have enough money for what he wanted?" he asked obligingly. He could guess the end of this already, but he'd let Zoë finish her story.

"Yeah, he did. He handed out cuts of the take, and was plenty happy with what he had left. Said it was enough, long as I offered up some of my own for repairs. At the time, I had no idea what he was talking about. But he dragged me out to a shipyard on Persephone and introduced me to _Serenity_.

"Honestly, Shepherd, I didn't think much of her at first." She tipped her head toward Mal. "I thought he'd lost his mind, sinking all our money into a wreck like that. Guess he just looked deeper than I did."

Mal must have sensed her speaking of him. He started awake and lifted himself onto one elbow. "Monty?" he said. "Zoë – you gotta get a'hold of Monty. I got an idea. Helluva idea. Poetic, even."

"Monty'll be on his way," Zoë said calmly. "You hungry, sir?"

Mal didn't answer; he looked around slowly. "Why we campin' out?"

"Huntin' strays that went missin' in the storm. No need to get up. We won't be goin' out till the drizzle clears."

The captain stared at her dumbly, his face a picture of confusion. Book felt Zoë tense, and he held his own breath. He really didn't want to spend this outing fighting the captain, and he wasn't looking forward to constantly guessing as to the man's frame of mind. Mal had been volatile enough when he was sane; the way he was now, anything was possible.

Mal gave the tent one more look-over, then he threw his blankets back. "I gotta take a leak," he said.

Book blew out his breath as Mal stepped over a pile of coiled rope on his way out. Count on the captain to prioritize.

"'Hunting strays?'" he asked Zoë in a soft voice.

She looked at him and shrugged. "It worked."

Book had another question to ask, but he held his tongue, wanting to wait until Mal settled down again.

It didn't happen. The captain seemed to find something to occupy his mind; he stood out in the light rain and stared down into the valley.

"So…" Book ventured softly. "All that happened right after the first U-Day?"

Zoë looked up at him; a sharpness in her face showed that she read his curiosity and didn't think much of it. But she didn't chastise him. Instead, she lowered her eyes and stared into the fire thoughtfully.

Book left her alone. He'd given his hint; she could tell more of her past, or not, as she saw fit. Either way, she surely needed a break. What'd just passed was many times more words than he'd ever heard her string together, and he could see that it was more than just a telling to her. Her eyes had hardly fixed on him while she spoke. Her body might have been on this moon, but her mind was in the past near as fully as the captain's.

"Well, I'll just get going with the setup," Book said, and he climbed to his feet.

o-o-o

Translations  
sōng kuai: relax  
méi shén me: it's nothing  
wáng bā dàn: SOB


	2. Chapter 2

**Back Stories Book II**

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

* * *

_This is a continuation of The Fish Job, Easy Tickets, and Back Stories Book I. This series of fics follows Objects in Space and doesn't attempt to tie into the movie. It's rated R for dark themes, violence, and a bit of sex. Pairings are canon, even when they might seem to be going astray. Really, my top priority is to keep everyone in character._

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. It's no easy thing to proofread this much material!_

* * *

**Chapter 2.**

Landsdowne Docks, Persephone

Inara clutched her cloth bag to her stomach as she slid through the throng. She walked with her shoulders slouched and kept her face tilted down, letting the hood of her cloak hang forward to hide her features. Not that anyone was looking. They all had their own business to do; even the idlers slumping on crates kept their attention focused on their bottles of booze. Inara's small figure in its bulky clothing held no interest to anyone.

The lunch vendors were out, filling the docks with thick smoke and the heady scents of whatever spices they used to cover the poor quality of their food. The warring smells made her stomach clench – her nerves had started a lively dance as soon as she'd left the quiet and safety of her transport, and she seem to couldn't settle herself down.

It wasn't apprehension about meeting with Badger; she was prepared for that. The bag she carried held a sample of the "wares" that she'd hire _Serenity_ to transport, and her story was cleanly laid out in her mind. She'd augment it with her feminine wiles as necessary – a woman didn't have to carry the title of Companion to do that.

The thought brought her face to face with the real source of her uneasiness. It was something she was completely unprepared for, although it should have been obvious. It had been years, maybe even more than a decade, since she'd moved through a crowd of strangers without them parting in front of her. She'd never realized how much she depended on the awe that her title and appearance won. Being a truly anonymous face in a crowd unnerved her; it made her feel like a different person, as if she'd left her real self behind when she'd fled the House on Sihnon.

A large man carelessly bumped her as he passed, making her stumble and spin. She caught her balance, but had to stay still and reorient herself. It wasn't easy – it seemed that everyone on the docks was taller than she was, and for a moment she couldn't see through them to find her way again. She stood in the midst of the swirling crowd, but felt completely cut off and alone. Lost.

For a moment, she was taken back to the girl she'd been long, long ago. Strange, it was so distant that, until this moment, she'd almost come to believe that it wasn't real. Another person had lived that life, not Inara Serra.

o-o-o

Nineteen years ago

The little girl with curly black hair and large, expressive brown eyes can barely see through the crowd. Whatever the fuss is about, it's going to make her late for supper. Still, she's curious enough to pause and have a look around before heading home.

There's no moving forward through the mob, so Kari hugs the soft contents of her bag and steps back out of the way. There isn't supposed to be any theft in the city; that's what the smiling faces on the billboards say, but she knows better. Her parents are always warning her about crooks, and she's seen many careless people fall prey. So she holds the thin plastic bag close to shelter it from the people who jostle her as they hurry toward whatever spectacle the night brings.

She listens to the talk and learns that there is a big party going on. That's why the road is closed. Transports full of Important People need space to land, and even more room for the vid crews who watch from every angle, recording and sending out captures of the event for the regular people to see. The crowd pushes forward, trying to catch a glimpse. Kari wants to see too, but she knows she'll never be able to get to the front row. She's only nine years old, and too small to push her way forward. Besides, the bag of bread is a burden that she can't risk crushing or losing.

She sighs and turns away.

She hardly goes ten meters before her eyes follow a railing up a stairway to her left. It leads to a small landing outside a shopping center, one that she never goes in because she knows the security people would only shoo her out. The shops are closed now, the tall entryway dark and empty, but a billboard on the platform gives her an idea. The billboard is cube-shaped, ads on each of its four sides, and just a little taller then her. She'd easily be able to climb on top of it.

She squeezes the bag of bread doubtfully. Her mother is expecting her home to make dinner…

A sudden burst of applause and screams of joy from the crowd decides it for her – Kari dashes up the stairs. She throws the bag on top of the billboard and scrambles up next to it. It isn't difficult; she's always been flexible and agile.

Once she's up, she settles on her folded knees and looks toward the bright lights. A large black transport has landed, and a man is standing on a red carpet just outside it. Lights flash as captures and cameras do their work. She recognizes the man. In fact…

She leans over the edge of the cube she's kneeling on. The picture beneath her shows a dark brown horse in full gallop, its mane and tail streaming and hooves flying. A man – the man on the red carpet – is tilted half out of the saddle, one arm raised with a mallet ready to come down on a ball that rolls beside his horse. Another rider is behind him in the picture; the horses are nearly flank to flank. It looks like the red carpet man might get knocked to the ground and go tumbling beneath those flying hooves.

Kari's eyes widen in excitement as she sits up and looks toward the bright lights again. Her mother talks about Adolfo all the time, and now Kari understands. He's thrillingly handsome, and strong and exciting and must be brave to ride horses the way he does. Adolfo is famous. He led Sihnon's polo team when they almost won the finals just last summer, losing to Londinium in a match that everyone talked about for weeks.

Adolfo waves to the crowd with a smile that makes Kari sigh. She watches his every move, wanting to remember the little details. She might not see such a man, up this close, ever again.

But then Adolfo turns back to the gleaming black transport and holds out his hand, and Kari's attention is drawn to the woman who steps out. Once Kari looks at the woman, she can't look away.

This is the most beautiful woman Kari has ever seen. Her dress is white and emerald green, and golden threads are woven into her auburn hair. Golden jewelry curls around her arms and wrists, and glint on her calf when her slitted skirt parts. And her smile – it's the smile that really captures Kari's eye. The woman is like a goddess in a temple, and yet she smiles naturally and laughs with ease.

Kari has always been good with grown-ups. A little charmer, her father calls her. That's why she gets the task of going to the back doors of the neighborhood eateries for handouts; she always knows how to talk to the shop-owners and make them smile. Kari can't explain it, she just understands people. She always has, and she's hardly ever wrong.

And now she knows that the pretty woman, though rich and important, is kind. Even to a penniless little girl who has to charm people for handouts, that woman would smile and say hello. That's why a man like Adolfo is looking at her the way he is – because she's beautiful inside as well as out.

Kari hears a crinkling and looks behind her just in time to see a shadow running into the crowd with her bag of bread. She starts to jump down, then realizes that it's too late. She'll never catch the thief. She's in for trouble when she gets home; the handouts are only given once a day, and it's too late to go back for more.

But there's nothing to be done about it now, so she stays where she is and watches the glamorous pair pose for the captures. She stays even after they go in, and she studies other Important People as they arrive, wondering what fun and glamorous things are going on inside that building, imagining crystalline lights and glasses of sparkling wine and tables of fancy food piled to the ceiling.

She stays until the lights go out and the crowd trickles away.

The next day, she sees short vids of Adolfo and his companion on billboards around the city. At dinner that night, she asks her family who the woman is. The only answer is from her father, who says in disgust:

"She's a whore."

o-o-o

"Mr. Badger!" Will said. "How do you do?" He strode into the office and noted the placement of guards: two men stood against the wall to his right, holding guns. A third was sitting on a sofa in the back of the room. Only three.

Will held his friendliest smile held firmly in place, though it took an effort to keep up his cheer. He wasn't feeling it. He wasn't feeling this whole situation, because he wasn't able to focus on it like he usually would. Other things were on his mind, and he had more than one goal to accomplish on this outing. First and most obvious was to tickle information out of this little worm of a crime lord. Second – and currently more forward in Will's mind – was to make something clear to his partner.

See, this wasn't how it was supposed to be. A partner should be nothing but solid back-up, with no questions asked, no judgments, and no gorramn threats to tattle. Ginger used to be that. She used to be a good kind of partner, but she'd slipped. Now she was needing a slap or two to get her back in line, and the sooner the better.

So Will's mind was busy as he stretched a hand out over a blocky gray desk, offering a shake. The man seated there didn't seem overjoyed at the meeting; he squinted up from under a silly round hat with a kind of cautious greed that small time crooks always had in spades. Will'd seen it before – Badger didn't want to miss any opportunity for profit, and Will's wave had piqued his interest. But it was just as important for Badger to prove himself the biggest man in the room.

He didn't take the offered hand.

"I'll be doin' fine when you explain this deal of yours," he said, his words coming in a fatly rounded accent. "You said somethin' about profit? What is it – goods to be moved? _Valuable_ goods?"

"Yes, indeed," Will replied. He pulled his unshaken hand back and tucked his thumbs behind his belt buckle, determined to not be visibly bothered by the slight. He looked around the office. "Mind if I sit?" he asked, though there wasn't a single chair for guests. Badger clearly wasn't one to make his visitors comfortable.

Badger ignored the question. He deliberately ran his hands over the weapons on his desk – Will's and Ginger's. They'd had to disarm before being let in. Will glanced back at Ginger, saw her tense when Badger pick up her handgun. Will knew that she wasn't as attached to this particular piece as she was to her sniper rifle, but she was tetchy about anyone handling her weaponry. She acted like she was having her private parts invaded.

Will grinned. Served the bitch right.

Badger also noticed how close he was being watched. "Who's the tail?" he asked Will.

Will gave up on waiting for a seat to be offered; he slid his ass onto the edge of the desk and looked back toward Ginger. "Ahh…" he said with a warm, affectionate smile. "This lovely doll is my long time partner in crime. I couldn't function without her. She's quite a wily vixen."

Will felt some satisfaction; Ginger fidgeted uncomfortably as all the male eyes in the room fastened on her. She hated attention at any time. Right now, she had to be feeling damned near naked, with five men staring at her and not a weapon she could use to shore herself up. Well, except that one tiny little gun she kept hidden – some of those nooks and crannies on her plump body had more than one use. Will narrowed his eyes and studied her closely – she had a little less plump than she used to.

But Badger wasn't an admirer. "I ain't seein' it," he said flatly, then he looked back at Will. "And I ain't seein' much value in you either. Get you arse off my desk and explain your business a'fore I get impatient."

Will sighed and scooted onto his feet, but had to turn back quickly to catch an hourglass before it tipped onto the floor. He hefted it once in his hand – solid brass. Nice. "Sorry about that," he said as he set the thing up again. "No offense?"

"What offends me is havin' a bag of hot air and his hag come into my place and waste my time. Time is money ereabouts."

"Of course." Will stood with his arms folded, thinking fast. His anger at Ginger had gotten in his way; instead of trying to get at her, he should have been charming Badger. He could wrap a man like this around his finger, if he gave it a minute's focused effort.

But… damn, it was fun to see Ginger squirm.

And then, Will had a fun idea.

"You trade in people, don't you?" he asked.

"Whad'ya mean?" Badger asked suspiciously.

"Slaves. That kind of thing."

"That the business you here for?"

"Not exactly. But I was wondering… how much for this one?" He tipped his head toward Ginger.

Badger's mouth fell open and twisted sideways before he asked. "You serious?"

"Yeah. I was being ironic before. Sarcastic. I didn't mean it. The truth is, I'm done with her. You'd do me a big favor if you'd take her off my hands. Price is low."

"Will, cut it out," Ginger said tightly.

"And I'd really owe you one," Will continued without missing a beat. "You see – she's been getting on my nerves, always nagging and pecking. You know how it is with women."

Badger wasn't completely dense; his eyes flicked between Ginger and Will, then he grinned, picking up that this was a some kind of feud that Will had chosen to carry on in public. As Will'd figured, Badger took the male side of the battle. He looked Ginger up and down, then shook his head.

"You'd have to pay me to take the likes a' that," he said with obvious disgust. "Won't be fetchin' a thing in the sex trade. I know sheep can do more for a man."

Will sputtered a short laugh, which got a rise out of Ginger. "It ain't funny!" she said. "Now let's just get on with – "

"You have a point," Will said to Badger. "And then there's the added cost of cutting out her fricking tongue, which would be an absolute necessity."

Badger smiled wide enough to show his back teeth. "She's that type, huh?"

Will rolled his eyes. "You don't know what I put up with."

Ginger was turning red by now. "Will, I swear–"

Will cut her off again. "She's useless at any kind of real work, too. All she's good at is sitting on her ass and complaining."

Badger laughed. "World's got plenty a'those. Sorry, I can't say as I got a market for an ugly, whiny, fat chāolíng mǔgǒu."

Will sighed dramatically. "Oh well, it was worth trying. I guess I ought to get to the real business, then."

"Whad'ya got?" Badger asked. He was sitting back in his chair now, a lingering grin on his face and his hands folded over his stomach, far from the guns on the desk. The guards were relaxed too; they were leaning against the walls, their weapons held loose, all their attention on Ginger's tight-lipped face.

Will smiled in satisfaction. He'd done well – a neat bit of male bonding and a message sent to Ginger. Two birds down with one fun little stone.

"It has to do with one Malcolm Reynolds," he said.

Just like that, his efforts were put in jeopardy; Badger's smile abruptly disappeared.

"Now, don't' be coy," Will went on quickly. "I know you know him, and I know he was here less than a week ago. All I need is to find out where he went."

Badger's face had gone into a deep frown. "You the law?"

Will looked back at Ginger long enough to wink at her. Badger's hostility had shifted things, and if it couldn't be soothed over, Will might need the woman on his side. She did have that hidden gun. "We might as well be," he said. "We have powerful interests behind us, Mr. Badger, and those interests want to find Reynolds. It's be best for everyone if you'd just be a pal and help us out."

His words were easy, but he let his face carry a little threat. It made Badger look thoughtful, and he eyed the guns on his desk. That handgun of Ginger's was no pea-shooter. Anyone carrying a piece like that had to have connections. Badger seemed to work that much out; it didn't scare him enough to give in and spill the info, but he at least made some effort to be polite.

"He's workin'," Badger said. "Very industrious man, is Malcolm Reynolds."

"I'm sure he is."

"And I'd prefer not to have him interrupted at this particular time. Now – is this really what you come to see me about? To ask after the good Sergeant?"

"Indeed, it is."

"So, let me get this straight. You fed me a line to get me out a' my bed early, then you walked into my office with a big load of nothin'. Is that how it is?"

The words made Will sigh; the game was up. Badger hadn't been charmed, and he wasn't a bit scared. He felt nice and safe and secure, here in his cozy little den with his three ugly goons to fight for him.

Will held his hands out and put on his most winning smile. "You found me out."

Badger narrowed his eyes. "You know, I don't think I like you."

Will scoffed at that, but Badger went on.

"But because I'm a generous kind'a fella, I'll make you a deal. You take your ladyfriend and gŭndàn" – Badger nodded at the exit – "and I'll have my man bring out your hardware – after I'm done looking it over." His eyes flicked down to Ginger's handgun. "I'll be keeping one piece for myself. You see, that way I don't have to give you a thrashin' for bein' dishonest with me. I get my profit and you learn your lesson."

Will heard Ginger draw in a tense breath and he turned to meet her eye for just a second. This struck her deep.

But Will wasn't about to let it go that way. He didn't move toward the door – in fact, he shifted a little closer to the desk. "But there is profit to be had," he said, slow and clear. "Profit of plenty. It comes from you not getting on my bad side. Mr. Badger… you really don't want to be on my bad side."

Badger did that thoughtful look again, and it went on longer this time. He seemed to pick at his teeth with his tongue as he studied Will, then he looked back at the guns on his desk.

"Who'd you say you work for?"

"I didn't."

"Who the hell d'you work for?"

Will let a few dramatic seconds pass before he answered: "Very, very, very serious people."

Badger frowned – he didn't like that, and he was wavering on the edge of a decision. Will took another glance back at Ginger, but she didn't meet his eye this time. She was staring at her endangered gun and scowling. That was a good sign; her contribution was sorely needed. It was either leave or fight, and Will wasn't about to leave.

So, best get to it. Strike first, strike hard, and do whatever it takes. He wrapped his fingers around the hourglass on Badger's desk, then took a sudden big step to his right and whirled. He flung the heavy hunk of brass at the head of the gunman in the back of the room, barely missing Ginger, then he finished his turn and crashed into the other two guards.

o-o-o

Translations  
chāolíng mǔgǒu: old bitch  
gŭndàn: fuck off; get lost


	3. Chapter 3

**Back Stories Book II**

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

* * *

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

**

* * *

**

Chapter 3.

Highgate's second moon

"Jeffreys…" Mal muttered. "Stupid idealistic báifèi of a human being." He looked up and raised his voice. "Zoë!"

"Yes, sir?" Zoë replied distractedly. She was focused on trying to arrange a tarp over the fire. It was a delicate task – the firepit had to stay dry, as did the woodpile, but she had to leave a chimney for the smoke to get out.

"Would you tell Jeffreys to keep his gorramn looney ideas to himself?"

That made Zoë pause in her work. Mal was hunkered down next to the fire, stirring the large tin pan of soup that hung over the flames. She figured that no matter what point of his life he thought he was in, he'd be hungry, so the vittles would be his chore. When he was up to it, that was.

"What's he done?" she asked.

"Talkin' about some 'education' bullshit. Like pullin' kids away from the work they got to do at home and teachin 'em about the evils of the Alliance will do them a damned bit of good now."

"It's of some use to keep the truth alive, sir," she said stoically.

"We lost the war, Zoë," he said harshly. "Get used to it."

"I know it well, Sarge," she replied. "Don't need the reminder."

Mal settled down after she said that, having the grace to look a little ashamed for snapping at her. He finished making his additions to the protein stew, then sat back and let the pot simmer.

"I told you from day one," he finally said, his voice calm now, "I don't belong here. I done my fighting, and I got no need for this Underground gōushī."

"I understand that."

He sat quietly, and she snuck glances at him. There was a shadow in his face, the mark of ugly thoughts, and she tried to guess exactly where – or when, really – he thought he was.

He made it easy for her. "Gonna be a year since the war ended," he said. "Next week."

She took in a deep breath. "Yes, sir."

"They're callin' it Unification Day. U-Day. Can you believe that? Like it's some great event. Somethin' to throw a party about."

Zoë didn't reply. She saw Book approaching, climbing the hill with slow, deliberate steps, a large pack of wood slung across his back. The rain had come on steady in the past half hour; everything not covered was soaked through, and the wet moss made the rocks extra slick. It wasn't an easy trip down the hill and back.

"Who's that?" Mal asked, sitting up and putting a hand to his hip. He had no gun, of course.

"New recruit," Zoë explained. "He's all right."

"Just out of the camp?"

"Nope," Zoë said, then she improvised easily; she was getting used to this. "Just signed up to help with moving folks off-world."

"Looks like a man of God," Mal said, his words sharp, like it was an accusation.

"He is, sir."

Mal made a sound of disgust, but when Book reached the campsite – wet to the skin, shivering, and out of breath – Mal didn't say anything. The Shepherd set his load of wood in a hollow next the fire so it could dry out, and moved the nearly dry batch further back. When he was finished, he gave Mal an awkward wave.

"Good to see you," he said uncertainly.

Mal gave him a dark, nearly hateful look and didn't reply.

They sat quietly until Book had warmed himself, then he rose to his feet. "I'll just grab another batch," he said with a smile, like he was talking about a walk through a field of flowers.

Zoë nodded. It grated her to have the old man doing physical labor, but she didn't feel good about sending Mal to forage, not with the way he lost track of himself from time to time. She also couldn't leave the captain alone with Book; she'd rather give the preacher physical labor than the kind of verbal abuse Mal might hand out. Anyhow, Book didn't seem to mind the work. He always had been spry for a man his age, and he went about his task at a slow, careful pace, like a beast of burden that had long ago accepted the toil of its life.

Before he returned, Mal'd had his meal, and the weight of all that was amiss in his head began wearing him down again. He visibly drooped, his head hanging and eyes confused. Zoë talked him into accepting a shot of Simon's meds – the good thing about his condition was the innoc explanation would work, time after time – and she watched as he folded himself into his bedroll.

"Can't say why I'm so gorramn beat…" he said in a fading voice, and then he was out.

She got a dry blanket and a warm cup of soup ready for Book, and it wasn't long before he trudged over the slippery rocks. She laid out the wood while he warmed himself and ate.

"He don't really mean it, Shepherd," she said after a while.

"Yes, he does," Book replied. "He's been ill-used by life. He's not the first to blame God for that."

"But he don't mean to blame you. He thinks well of you, as a man. At least, he does when he knows you."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. I imagine I'd have been off his ship in a hurry if that wasn't true." He smiled at Zoë and took another sip of his soup.

Zoë sighed. Book had such a calmness of spirit, a way of soothing rough spots like they weren't ever there. It eased her, more than she'd expected, and she was glad that he'd stayed with her. It would have been hard to be alone with Mal, the way the captain was.

And, though she wasn't normally one to chatter, it had felt good to share, to bring her memories to light and see the preacher nod his understanding. She could keep on. He had given her a clean invite to follow up on what she'd started, and tell about the past as Mal wandered through it.

But not everything would be such a romp as the theft on Du-Khang. There were horrors that she didn't even name to herself now, things she only saw when they forced their way into her dreams. Telling of those would hurt. She may as well take a coal from the fire and clench it in the palm of her hand; that would feel much the same. So maybe it was best to stay clear. She was plenty strong enough to do it. She could sit by and let Mal relive it on his own and, as he forgot, maybe she would too.

Even as she considered it, Zoë knew it couldn't happen that way. She couldn't say where the certainly came from. Maybe it was the way the light didn't change and the sun never moved, maybe it was the rain that didn't end but came and went in waves, but she felt trapped into the telling, as if it was a confession long overdue.

She folded her hands in front of her, clenching them together so she wouldn't cross herself.

_Bless me father, for I have seen sin, and I have seen it spread like a plague, spoiling every soul it lays hand on._

"He was talking about Jeffreys earlier," she said.

"Jeffreys?" Book asked.

"Independent."

"Someone from the war?"

"Yeah, Jeffreys was in the war, but Mal and I didn't know him till after."

She paused, and Book waited quietly, as if he knew she was planning on talking and no prompts were needed. He was right about that. The ball was rolling, and she had no choice but to go with it.

"You know how I told you that Mal and I did some work on Du-Khang? On rebuilding Hăiníng?"

Book nodded.

"We didn't choose that. It was a work camp, internment after the war. Some politician wanted to make a statement, wanted us to earn forgiveness for our sins, I guess.

"Wasn't a good idea, and didn't last so very long. Once we got out, we found that folks in the nice new city didn't take much of a shine to us. But there were those who set up a safe place. Word got round – it was best for us Browncoats to turn our backs on the city lights and take an hour's walk on a dirt road to Èrshuǐ Village. This fella Jeffreys had a place on the edge of it, a big old farmhouse with plenty of room. It was a place to stay till we could move on.

"I was one of the first out of the camp, and I stayed with Jeffreys longer than most. Didn't have much of anywhere to move on to."

Well, maybe that last part wasn't quite the truth. She may have lost all her family in the war, but she'd seen enough of the verse that she knew of a few worlds she could get by all right. Fact was, she had a particular reason to stay on Du-Khang.

"A few months after I got out, Mal showed up, one of the last to get his liberty."

She paused again to wonder whether she ought to explain the nature of Mal's "liberty." She glanced toward the captain, then shook her head. Wasn't time for that yet.

"Anyhow, the two of us stayed on for a few more months. We passed the first U-Day there – left the morning after, in fact. May not surprise you to hear that we had to leave in a hurry."

Book smiled. "Not a bit," he said.

o-o-o

Six years ago, Èrshuǐ Village, Du-Khang

"What the hell are you doing?" Jeffreys demands. Zoë turns to see who he's talking to in such a scalding voice, though she can guess in less than two tries. The Sarge hasn't exactly been making himself welcome here.

Sure enough, it is Mal making a scene, heading for the door wearing his Independent uniform like it's still a year ago and the war is raging outside: boots over tan pants with a stripe down the leg, dark brown suspenders over a rust red shirt, and a dark brown coat topping it off.

"It ain't Halloween," Zoë says.

"And I ain't wearing a costume," Mal replies. He hadn't paused when Jeffreys spoke, and he doesn't pause now, just continues out the door like he has a hot date to get to.

Zoë holds a hand out to Jeffreys, motioning him to stay put. There's no argument there. In the three months since Mal came out of the internment camp, it's become common but unspoken knowledge that the only one who can deal with him when he's in a mood is Zoë.

And he's in a mood most of the time.

She hurries out of the rambling farmhouse and through the clearing that surrounds it, catching up to Mal just as he gets onto the narrow path that cuts through the heavy woods. He's heading toward the village, moving away from the setting sun.

"I'd like to meet her, sir," Zoë says.

He turns his head to glance at her sidelong. "Who's that?"

"The lady you're out tryin' to impress with those threads. Must be a real interesting gal, if she's into having her men on the _dead_ side."

He doesn't slow his long strides. "I ain't dead."

"Will be soon, you go into town lookin' like that."

Mal replies in the loud, exaggerated voice of a town crier. "The mighty Alliance defends such personal freedoms as an individual's fashion sense," he announces, then he glances back at her. "Ain't that what we're supposed to be celebratin' today?"

Zoë takes a deep breath – so that's what this is about. "Sir, the rabble is just lookin' for someone like you to celebrate on. Best you do whatever you're plannin' tomorrow. Leave it be tonight."

Mal keeps walking. The path is too narrow for her to fit beside him, so when she catches up she grabs his arm to make him stop.

"Sarge – I can't let you do this. You'll bring attention on the rest of us. It's part of being in the Underground, you have to lie low – "

He wrenches his arm free. "I'm out, Zoë."

"What?"

"I'm the hell out. I told you before – this ain't for me. I stay until I get healed up, then I go my own way. That was the deal you offered, and that's the one I took." He holds up his right hand and flexes his fingers, showing the bones knitted back whole and moving freely. "I'm healed. Now I'm going. See? Here I go."

He turns and continues toward a junction where the dirt path joins a larger way. Zoë huffs once, frustration rising at his pig-headedness, then follows. He's got a head of steam going, but maybe she can get him to let it out here in the relative safety of the woods.

"And what do you think you're gonna do, farmboy?" she says, deliberately taunting him. "You got no place to go. You gonna hire out your gun, collect up enough credits to sit around some crappy waterin' hole and drink cheap booze? Tell war stories till you're fat and useless? Helluva life that is."

He stops and turns back to her, stepping close with a violence in his face that makes her tense up.

"I don't give a donkey's back end what you think of my life," he says. "You invited me to stay with that bunch till I was on my feet again, and I did. I even helped em out some. But this _Underground_ struggle ain't something I ever asked to be part of. You can chase after your cause all you want. I'm done with it."

He starts to turn away, but Zoë stops him with a hand on his elbow. "Fine. Go your own way. But you'll have an easier time with that if you don't get yourself killed by a drunken mob first."

Zoë's proved long ago that she can take the sarge when it comes to fisticuffs, but he surprises her this time. He moves in with a quick feint of his right arm and a chop of his left hand that shoves her to the side and down. Before she knows it, she's lying in the dirt, holding a sore spot in her ribs and looking up at him. Bastard has a gun in his hands; he's not pointing it at her but she recognizes it. Her right hand slaps her empty holster and she curses.

Before she can do a thing, he has her carbine broken down, the ammo and parts scattered in the dirt at his feet. He turns and leaves without a word. Gorramn man knows she won't follow without her gun, especially considering what he's heading into.

He's out of sight before she gets the gun reassembled, the dirt brushed off as best she can manage. She runs to the main road and catches sight of him just entering town.

It turns out that his plan isn't complicated. The stupid húndàn walks right up to the most Alliance friendly bar in town, pushes open the door, and strides in like he's just jumped out of a cake and everyone should be cheering to see him. Zoë's near caught up by then and slips through the door a few seconds after, but no one notices her. The place has gone dead quiet, and every eye is fastened on Mal.

"Shitshitshitshitshit," Zoë whispers under her breath.

Mal goes to the bar, and with his most charming _I'm a nice guy_ grin, he orders a drink: "Qĭng yī bēi máo tái jiǔ."

In another situation, the bartender's reaction would have been comical. He clutches the bottle he's holding to his chest and shrinks to the back of the bar, like he's hoping the booze will be his shield against the bloody events that this idiot Browncoat's arrival is sure to bring.

Mal shrugs. "I'll just help myself then." He doesn't seem to hear the squeak of chairs sliding on the floor behind him as several of the saloon's patrons leave their tables, or the soft footsteps as the loose mob moves toward him. Mal just reaches over the bar, takes a glass, and fills it with something from a nearby bottle. Then he sets a coin on the bar and winks at the cowering barkeep.

"You keep the change."

Zoë's busy picking her spot; when the blows start she'll need to make herself useful. She'll have to draw as much of this crowd off of Mal as she can.

_This ain't gonna be pretty,_ she tells herself.

Mal turns around and does an exaggerated start of surprise, then he smiles and raises his glass. "Hell, since you're all up," he says, "how bout a toast?"

The mob's response is the kind of silence that comes before a bomb explodes.

Mal doesn't seem bothered. "Băi zú zhī chóng sĭ ér bù jiāng!" he says, and tosses back his drink. He barely gets it swallowed down before they're on him.

o-o-o

Zoë looked across the dying flames at Mal's sleeping form. It was quiet now; the drizzle had tapered off. There was only a soft trickling of water in the gully and the far-off murmur of a larger stream further down the hill.

"I should have known," she said in a low voice.

"What's that?" Book asked.

She glanced toward the Shepherd; she'd almost forgotten he was there. She sighed, then went to the pile of supplies, rummaging around until she found a flask. She returned to her seat by the fire and took a long drink before she offered the flask to Book. He poured a little splash into his mug – not much, just enough to be polite. That was good. Someone should stay sober.

She took the booze back and took another draw, then stared into the coals of the fire. The glow was pale and sickly against the diffuse light of the unchanging day. She lifted her eyes; everything looked washed out and dull, like it wasn't a real place. It was more of a limbo. Or maybe a purgatory.

But this didn't feel like a confession anymore; it felt like she was telling the story to herself, just to be sure that she still remembered. When Mal woke, he wouldn't know it anymore.

"A man who does what Mal did that U-Day is out to die," she finally said, "and there's no one can fight like a man out to die.

"It don't help any to land a blow on him, because he don't care about bein' hurt. He don't care about pain and scars that'll stay with him for the rest of his days. He don't think about the months of healing that follow a broken bone. A man with a death wish just wants to deal out as much rage as he can before he goes down, and that rage tends to fall hard and fast."

o-o-o

Which is the only way to explain how it ends. Zoë takes down her fifth opponent – or is it sixth? – and looks around for more, but there aren't any. There's just Mal, standing with his bloodied fists up, the bar a gorramn disaster site and the floor littered with bodies that groan in pain or just lie still and quiet.

"What?" he asks, dropping his arms and looking around for more foes. "That it? Ain't you people supposed to be the victorious Alliance? Ain't it Unification Day?"

No one answers. Mal wipes at his face; he's caught a few punches, but nothing so bad as what he'd got the day he was set free from the internment camp. He laughs unsteadily and returns to the bar, pausing to shove a foot at a body on the floor, someone who's had the nerve to fall in his path.

That's something Zoë's never seen before – the sarge, kicking someone who's down.

He finds an unbroken glass and pours himself another drink, though he spills half of it because of the way his hands are shaking. He drinks what he's got, then drops the cup when he hears a small sound from the back of the bar.

Mal has his gun out before the glass shatters on the floor – he never even had to use it in the fight, Zoë notes – and he aims it at an overweight rabbit of a man who's avoided the brawl and is now hoping to slip out the door.

"Sarge…" Zoë says nervously.

Mal ignores her. "What's your name?" he asks the man, who's frozen with his hands raised.

"They… call me P… Paddy."

"Well, Paddy," Mal says, "you weren't gonna go home without sharin' a toast with me, were ya?"

The man stands with his mouth hanging open. When Mal cocks the gun with his thumb, Paddy nods vigorously.

Mal motions with a tip of his head. "Come on up here."

Zoë isn't liking this. Not one bit. "This ain't a good idea," she says.

Mal grins in a dark way that has an edge of crazy in it, but he doesn't look at her. All his attention is on the terrified man. "Zoë," he says. "Glad you joined the festivities. Why don't pour us three a round?"

"Sarge, this man ain't done a thing to you."

"Which is why I'm offerin' him a drink," Mal says, slow and reasonable, but Zoë knows he's not seeing much reason at the moment. He still has the gun pointed at the man's chest, but he talks to him like he's trying to charm a stray mutt. "You want a drink, don'cha Paddy?"

The man nods again, then stumbles over a prone body. He looks like he'd prefer a visit to whatever passes as a dentist around here than a drink with a suicidal and homicidal Browncoat.

Mal's voice hardens as he orders, "So pour us a gorramn round, Corporal."

Zoë decides to ride this out. Given the way Mal's hands are shaking, it isn't like he's in control of the situation himself. She uses her sleeved arm to clear broken glass from the bar, then finds three glasses and something to fill them with. To hurry things up, she hands them out. Mal reaches with his left hand to take his drink without disturbing his aim. The man at the wrong end of the gun manages to take his cup too, but not without spilling a splash of what fills it.

Mal raises his glass. "Băi zú zhī chóng sĭ ér bù jiāng," he says softly.

The man's eyes never left Mal as he studders half of it back: "Băi zú zhī chóng …"

"…sĭ ér bù jiāng," Mal prompts.

"…sĭ ér bù jiāng."

Then poor Paddy drinks what there is in his glass, gulping it down like it's the last bit of tasty he has left to him before he gets forcefed a bullet or two.

But after Mal finishes his own drink, he tips his gun back and smiles brightly. "Aw, hell. That's all I wanted!" he says. He digs into a pocket, pulls out a few more coins, and adds them to the mess on the bar. The bartender isn't around to notice; Zoë figures he's made it a good half a klick into the woods by now.

"Y'all have a nice night," Mal says as he walks past a trembling Paddy, then he pauses at the door to add, "All hail the great Alliance!"

Zoë follows Mal down the dirt road, staying back because he seems to be heading out of town and she sure as hell doesn't want to get in the way of that happening as quick as can be. Once they're on the narrow path and out of sight of any other foot traffic, it's a different story. She doesn't give Mal a chance to sucker punch her this time, just grabs a few handfuls of his coat and shoves him off the path.

"Bèn tiānshā de shăzi!" she yells at him. "Do I have to knock sense into you?"

Mal neary trips over some fallen branches, but he keeps his balance and pushes her away. "Not now," he says; the shake that had been in his hands is in his voice now.

"What is wrong with you!" she yells, deliberately ignoring the threat of Malcolm Reynolds advancing on her, teetering on the edge of his control. "You could'a died in there!"

He leans over her, his face nearly in a snarl. "I didn't," he says through gritted teeth.

"Might have if I hadn't followed you in!"

Just like that, he backs off. "Well then, ain't I lucky?" His mouth pulls back in half a grin, and he steps onto the path and turns his back to her.

She's helpless; there's no way she can fight him when he's like this. But she can't let him go either. "Sarge," she yells after him. "Mal!"

She's a little surprised when he actually stops and looks back at her. "What?" he asks.

"Where you gonna go?"

The resignation in her voice gets to him more then her threats. He stands in the deepening shadows of the trees, taking long, slow breaths until his shoulders relax a little, and when he speaks again it's the sarge talking to her, not the crazy man he'd been a few seconds before.

"I figure I'll work a freighter," he says. "Maybe get a ranching job if I find a good spot. Save up some coin, get my own place."

"You're just gonna waste away like that?"

He lifts his hands out to his sides. "I lost, Zoë. What else have I got to do?"

She has no answer to his words, nor to the despair in his voice. She's had her own struggles with that question since she's left the camp, but she was ready for them. She was raised military – from her earliest days she understood the rules her parents lived by. She understood the life they chose, the one she'd inherit, and she accepted the risks that came with it. Loss wasn't wanted, wasn't held high in some insane fantasy of martyrdom, but she at least had been prepared for what would come with defeat, and she'd never had any expectations of a life of settled peace.

When she lost her family and her purpose in the war, she mourned them as she should, but now she's set to move on. For a time, she's kept herself busy finding a place for homeless Browncoats, but that need is passing. The internment camp is emptied out, and the Underground has taken care of most of those who need it. Leaders like Jeffreys have all kinds of plans for doing more, for keeping the struggle alive, but, as Zoë stands on the narrow path and questions Mal, she finds that she has no more heart for the ongoing struggle than he does. It's been beat out of her.

The honest truth of it, she realizes, is that she'd stayed on with Jeffreys for one reason, and that reason has just done his best to get himself dead. He's like to try it again, if he goes off in the Black on his own. Looking at it like that, Zoë sees that maybe she has one bit of family left, and the best thing she can do is to hold onto him.

"So when we leavin'?" she asks.

She's prepared for an argument, but she doesn't get one. Mal steps off the path and stretches one arm out to catch hold of a low branch. He leans there, and there's a long silence while he idly wipes at blood on his upper lip with his free hand.

"I think it got broke again," he finally says, gingerly touching the bridge of his nose.

"I'd be happy to fix it for you," Zoë offers in a dark, threatening tone.

Mal looks up and smiles when he sees her raised fist. "I guess I earned that," he says. "I could'a got you killed."

"Hell, I was fine. You're the one can't fight worth a damn. You're just lucky they were all drunk."

"Yeah," he says wearily, "guess I'm lucky." He doesn't sound like he means it.

"So what's the plan, sir?"

He looks up when she calls him that. Then he gives a little nod, accepting the role she's just given him for a second time.

"There's a freighter leavin' first thing in the morning. I'm sure I can wrangle a job carrying cargo on it."

"I take it the ship ain't Alliance."

"Not a bit. Run by Monty. Guess he bought himself a carrier, soon as the war ended. Won't matter what color I'm wearin' with him."

Zoë nods her approval. Monty'd been in a different unit and hadn't seen the hell of Serenity Valley, but they'd fought with him a few times before that. He's a good man.

"We'd best get a move-on then," she says, "if we want to get that nose of yours straightened out before we go. I got my own stuff to pack, too."

Mal grins, this time with an edge of mischievous in his face, something she hasn't seen since Serenity Valley. "You ain't got any stuff worth keepin'," he teases.

She walks over to him in a tough-girl saunter. "Course I do. You think I'm wearin' these old clothes out in the Black?" She looks down at her dull denim suit with a grin to match his own. "I always did look good in brown."

She stands for a minute, then offers him a hand. He takes it and lets her pull him out of the trees and back to the path, but he lingers there a minute longer.

"You don't have to come, Zoë," he tells her. "You got a place here. A job to do."

"There're other jobs, sir," she says. _Like keeping you alive._

Mal nods and turns to continue on his way. Zoë follows quietly behind.

o-o-o

"So we left," Zoë said. "Worked for Monty for a time. I think Mal did mean to find himself a world to settle on, to get back into ranching. But most places we went had the Alliance, and the way of life they brought with them. Any place still free tended to be hard and dead. A home on one of those meant long years of toil.

"Truth be told, I think the biggest problem, for Mal, was that nowhere was equal to the home he'd left and couldn't ever go back to."

She stopped talking, the words ending like their source had dried up. That was surely the case; she felt emptied out and barren inside. She needed the warmth of her bedroll and hours of sleep to strengthen herself.

Book didn't seem ready to call it quits. "Yes, I'd heard that the captain was from Shadow," he said. "It must have been hard for him, to find out what happened."

"Story for another time, preacher. I'm thinking it's close enough to evening time, no matter what the sky says. Maybe we ought to grab some shuteye while Mal's out." She rose to her feet and moved to bank the fire, but Book waved her away.

"I'll get that," he said.

Zoë shouldn't have let him do it, not after all the work he'd done already, but she didn't have it in her to argue. She left the clean-up to him and went to her sleeping pad.

She wished like hell that Wash was waiting for her there. For just a moment, she considered the comm unit tucked inside a plastic bag, but she pushed the idea away. Any signal coming off this deserted moon could be easily picked up by unfriendly ears. Waves had to be kept to a minimum; that was an order she'd made herself.

So she curled into her cold blankets alone, and hoped her dreams would be of her present life with her husband, and not of the past that was still waiting to be dredged through.

o-o-o

Translations  
báifèi: waste  
gōushī: crap  
húndàn: bastard  
qĭng yī bēi máo tái jiǔ: a glass of maotai, please  
băi zú zhī chóng sĭ ér bù jiāng: a centipede dies but never falls down (Old institutions die hard)  
bèn tiānshā de shăzi: stupid damned fool


	4. Chapter 4

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

_The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money._

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

* * *

**Chapter 4.**

Nineteen years ago

Kari talks to her friends in the streets (adults, mostly; she's always founds grown-ups easier to converse with than children her own age) and she hears enough to suspect that her father was wrong. The beautiful woman at the party was no whore. But Kari has no time to learn more about Companions; her mother announces that she's pregnant again, and immediately takes to bed. Kari has to stay home and do all the chores.

She's not surprised; this happens on nearly a yearly basis. Her mother loves babies. She can't get enough of holding them and cooing at them – as long as they smile and coo back. She doesn't like it so much when they scream, or their diapers need changing. When it comes to that Kari takes over.

Once those warm, wiggling bundles start walking and talking, when they have wills of their own and opinions expressed with stubborn _no_'s and stomped feet, their mother loses all interest. At that point, Kari has learned to start watching her mother's belly and guessing when the next one will arrive. Kari doesn't question it; she assumes that every family is like this, and she quietly does her part.

But everything changes one Saturday afternoon nearly five months after Kari saw the Companion. A young woman comes to the house; she's dressed in a gray suit like an office-worker would wear, but the fabric is wrinkled and she looks ragged. She works hard, Kari can see that much easily.

Her parents aren't glad to see the woman. They talk too fast and laugh nervously as they guide her through the cramped house. She hardly says a word, just takes notes on a battered computer notepad, then the three of them go into the kitchen and sit down. Kari and her siblings are shooed from the house so the grownups can talk in private.

Her parents are different in the days after that. They're quiet around each other, and her mom seems angry. But they never explain anything, not even a week later when Kari is told to pack a bag.

"You're going away," Kari's mother says as she passes through the kitchen, a hand on her back to support her swelling belly.

Kari doesn't respond immediately. She finishes wiping down the counter, then asks mildly, "Why?"

"I don't have time for this," her mother snaps. "You're going to live with someone else for a while."

Kari has an urge to complain, but, to be honest, she doesn't know how.

The blond lady shows up an hour later wearing the same grey suit as before. This time, she introduces herself to Kari. Her name is Susan, and she's a social worker.

A half hour later, Kari finds herself waiting at the landing docks with Susan. The woman explains that this is meant to help Kari's parents, but Kari isn't sure about that. She's beginning to understand what's happening, and she feels insulted and ashamed. It's none of Susan's business to tell Kari's family what to do. They may not have as much money as they used to, they may not have much money at all, but that doesn't mean they can be told what to do.

"It used to be different," she tells Susan.

"What did, honey?"

"We had a bigger house, and a lady came in to clean and cook dinner. I had a closet full of dresses, and I was learning to play the saarangi. I had my own tutor."

Susan looks uncomfortable, like she doesn't want to say anything offensive. "But it's not like that now, is it?" she asks gently.

Kari drops her eyes. "No."

They wait quietly for a few minutes, then Susan crouches down and takes Kari's hand. "Look," she says, and she points to a small dark shape high in the blue. "That's it. That's the one I was telling you about."

Kari frowns. "It doesn't look like a bug," she says.

"If you saw it in space," Susan answers, "you'd understand. The back lights up, just like a firefly."

Kari thinks that's ridiculous, but she doesn't say so. She watches the ship grow bigger; it swoops through the air gracefully, riding two long golden jets of flame. She realizes that her mouth is hanging open, and butterflies of excitement are fluttering in her stomach. She hasn't been on a transport that clears the busy city byways for years; she hardly remembers what the world looks like from high up. And as for the Black… she's even never seen it.

Suddenly, she very much wants to.

Susan, still kneeling beside her, reads Kari's expression incorrectly. "I know you don't like this," she says, "but give it a chance, all right? The family that lives on that ship has a daughter named Sylvia. She's about your age. You might be good friends – almost like sisters."

"I don't need any more sisters," Kari says quietly, her eyes still on the sky. "I have plenty of family."

Susan misunderstands again. "We're not trying to replace your real family. This is just temporary, so your parents can work a few things out. Once they've caught up and found a bigger place to live, you can go back and it'll be better than before. You won't work at home. You'll go to school, every day, and you'll finally get to learn."

Kari doesn't like the suggestion that she's ignorant. She pulls herself up tall and looks at Susan, enunciating as clearly as she can. "I don't need school. My mother teaches me at home. She's very well educated."

Susan smiles and touches Kari's curly black hair. "Yes, she's done well with you. But wouldn't you like to go to a proper school where you can be around other children your age? You'd be surprised at all the things there are to learn – so many subjects that you'll need more than one teacher. You'll have a much better chance of finding something that really suits you, something you'll love to do when you're grown up."

Kari doesn't answer. She has to think about that; could it be that she has so many options? Maybe even things that she hasn't yet imagined she could do? Could her life someday be very different than it is now?

"The people who will be taking care of you are very kind," Susan says. "They've taken a few foster children before, and the reports were very good. You're luckier than your brothers and sisters – you get to see the Black." She smiles; she's genuinely excited for Kari. "Just think of all the stories you'll have to tell when you come back."

Kari doesn't try to reply; the ship is landing noisily, its boosters throwing a cloud of heat and dust into the air.

As soon as the engines cycle down, Susan forgets about her earlier disclaimer and asks, "Shall we go meet your new family?"

Kari bites back a complaint about Susan again using that word – _family_ – and nods.

o-o-o

Landsdowne Docks, Persephone

Inara turned away from the ship that had just landed. The familiar shape had made her pause, at first hoping that, in an insanely good turn of luck, _Serenity_ was dropping out of the blue right in front of her. But the hull of this ship was a dull matte-black; it was more like the first Firefly she'd ever seen, the one that had taken her away from her childhood home, than it was to Mal's ship.

She shook her head. Too many memories had arisen this morning, and she couldn't allow the distractions. She had to focus on selling her fictional job to Badger. Her story and the sample goods she was carrying in a cloth bag would have to be enough to convince the man to contact Mal.

She took a deep breath and continued on; Badger's building was within sight. To her surprise, there were no guards at the entrance. The outer door was ajar, blocked slightly open by what looked to be steel machine parts lying haphazard in the doorway. She pushed the hood of her cloak back a little so she could see better, then peered inside.

"Hello?" she called into the shadowed hallway. No one answered.

She pushed the door open and stepped through. The hall was cluttered with overturned boxes and their scattered contents, and she had to move slowly until her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. No one came to meet her, but she heard a male voice echoing from the end of the hall. Slowly, she walked toward the sound.

The mess at the entrance of the building was nothing compared to what she found just around a sharp turn to the right, and she paused in the hallway for a moment, squinting as she took in the scene. The room was brightly lit by sunlight streaming in through skylights. Piles of junk lined the walls of the office as if hastily swept out of the center of the room, and on the far side was a large gray desk that sat at an angle, as if it'd been shoved across the floor.

She recognized the man sitting behind it. Badger's derby cap was tilted back at an odd angle, likely because of a bulky white bandage that covered the left side of his face. The tape that held the gauze in place ran under his chin as well; it didn't keep him from raising his voice, but he couldn't move his jaw freely and his words came out muffled.

"No," he said angrily. "No medic! Ain' havin' word a' this ge' roun'!"

There were two more men in the room; one was standing and holding a bloody towel to his bowed head as he took Badger's lecture, the other was on the floor digging through debris, stacking large books into piles and – oddly – returning a pair of neon wigs to two dummy busts on the shelves behind the desk.

And there was evidence of more violence. Blood pooled on the floor, and streaks ran through a far doorway as if a body had been dragged out. Clearly, this was a bad time to visit, but Inara wasn't about to give up. She stepped into the room and cleared her threat.

There was a scramble as guns were found and drawn and aimed, and Inara dropped her bag so she could raise her hands.

"I'm just here for business," she said quickly, fright making her voice come out too high.

"B'ness closed," Badger said. "Ge' ou'."

"But it's a lot of money – "

"Don' care. Ge' ou'."

Inara stood frozen, more than a little stunned. She couldn't leave. She couldn't possibly leave. She had no where else to go looking for Mal

"But it's… " She started to reach toward her bag, but stopped when guns cocked. "It's just fabric," she said. "See?" Very carefully, she reached down, just pinching a corner of green silk – the dress she'd been wearing when she left Sihnon – and lifting it for Badger to see. "Very expensive fabric. I can supply –"

"Wha' par' of ge' ou' d'ya no' understan'?" Badger said through gritted teeth.

Inara was still working out his muffled words when he nodded to the man who had been doing clean up – a very large man. The guard got up and started toward her, an equally large gun in his hand.

It was suddenly clear to Inara that the "job" she'd spent the morning plotting was no good. The temptation of money wasn't going to work. She'd have to go with threats, and there was only one way she could threaten Badger. She'd have to take the risk of revealing herself.

She pushed her hood back and stood straight as she looked Badger in the eye. "Do you recognize me?" she asked.

The firmness of her tone made the guard hesitate and look toward his boss. It got Badger's attention as well; he perked up and squinted at her.

"We know ea'other?"

"Remotely. I used to travel with Malcolm Reynolds."

The suspicion on Badger's face turned to disgust. "Cào Re'nolds!" he yelled. "Jiāo zòng zhà ass'ole sai' he's free an' clear, bu' now I go' alf the verse –" He stopped to clap a hand over his cheek and wince, then looked toward the guard and did some very expressive waving of his free hand, something that may have loosely translated to: _drag the bitch out by her hair._

Inara couldn't allow that. She kept her hands out to her sides so she wouldn't get shot at, but stepped away from the guard's reach. "If any of your men lay so much as a fingertip on me, you'll regret it!" she snapped at Badger. "Or are you so ignorant that you don't know it means to be a Companion?"

The guard stopped again and looked toward Badger helplessly. Badger leaned back in his chair and studied Inara.

"Oh yeah," he said. "I member you. Use' to dress a ta' be'er." Then he frowned (carefully), as if an unpleasant realization was coming to him, and when he spoke again his voice was raised in annoyance.

"Wha' hell you mean, _used_ to be with Re'olds? You's suppose' to be ere now. Reason I gave im the job was you!"

"What job?" Inara demanded, taking a few steps further into the room. She noted with some satisfaction that the guard backed out of her way. "Where is Mal? Has he come back here? Are you expecting him?"

Badger glared at her for a few seconds, then stuck his nose in the air and grinned as much as his face could manage. "None a' your b'ness," he said. "You ain' out elping get a goo' price on my pro'uct, so I go' no interes' in you."

Inara took a deep breath. "I'd be happy to help with your _product_," she said, "if you'd just tell me where –"

"Maybe you ain' seein' how i' is, but you ain' the firs' to come lookin' for him. I'm in no mood, so sorry, love – wai' – no, I'm no'. Now ge' out."

It took Inara a second to understand the meaning of that. Someone else had come here looking for Mal? She had to swallow back a knot of fear that threatened to close her throat – now was the time to take action, not to wallow in worry. She could fret later. Get information now.

She stepped up to the desk, putting a hand on it so she could lean toward Badger. "Don't play coy with me, little man. I have the power of the Companion's Guild behind me. Don't doubt that I could take you and your entire pathetic operation down if I chose to. I will leave this office after you answer my questions, _all_ my questions, and not a second sooner."

Maybe she exaggerated a bit; the Guild was known to be fiercely protective of its members, but it wasn't a military force. Add to that the fact that, most likely, the Guild couldn't be very happy with her at the moment, and what she'd just said was a big bluff. But Inara was good at carrying a bluff, and she didn't let her eyes waver.

She knew she'd won when Badger's face went pale. He cursed and waved back the guard. "Righ', then," he said. "ow the ell I ge' rid a' you?"

"Who was here looking for Mal?"

He pressed his hand against the bandage again and pouted. "No idea – but you ell Reynolds he can forge' bout doin' b'ness with me, after bringin' the likes a' them to my oor. I ever see im again, he'll pay – on top a' what he owes me for the cargo you ain' elpin' im sell."

"I'll be sure to give him the message," Inara said, "once I find him. But first, tell me who did all this."

Badger grimaced. He sat still for a moment, his eyes flicking around like he was looking for some way out, but then he shrugged. "Ain' like I wanna cover for the likes a'them," he muttered, then he launched into descriptions that made Inara's fear settle heavily into her stomach.

"Man an' woman. Man in black." Despite his limited movement, Badger managed a snort as he held his hands in front of his belly, fingers making as big a square as he could. "Big silver bel' buckle, looked a gorramn fool. He's a' one tore up my place, an' done this." He raised a finger to his face, drawing a long vertical line over the bandage.

A knife wound, Inara realized. Not a blow, but a deliberate disfiguration of his face.

That sounded like Will.

"When were they here?"

"Left not alf our ago."

Inara felt blood drain from her face – she had to put a hand on the desk again, this time to help her balance. She'd been so close, without even knowing it. She might have passed them in the crowd of the docks…

"What did you tell them?" she asked. "Where did you send them?"

Badger looked up at her and chewed his lip. At first, she thought it was hostility toward Mal making him hesitate, but then she read the doubt in his eyes. He didn't like admitting that someone had come into his place and bullied him into spilling the details of his own job. Badger had been shaken by it, Inara realized. He was trying to play tough, but he'd been scared.

She felt a twinge of pity, but didn't give into it. She was in a race, one that she was already losing, and there was no time to spare. She straightened and fixed Badger with a steady look.

"Tell me exactly where Mal went and why," she ordered. "Everything you told those two and anything you didn't. And be quick about it, or so help me I'll have every officer of the Alliance I ever serviced come to this world and rip your 'business' to shreds."

Again, it was a bluff, but it was effective.

o-o-o

Ginger stood in the small main room of the transport; she wasn't sure what to do with herself. Her blood was boiling in a way it hadn't in a long while.

Her right hand groped the gun on her hip – she'd recovered it from Badger's overturned desk after the action had finished – then rose to touch the smaller piece nestled in the stiff elastic bands of her bra. It wasn't much more than a capgun, but it had its uses, mostly on account of how easy it was to hide. Badger's guards, like most men, hadn't checked between her breasts as close as they checked the breasts themselves, and they'd paid for that.

Damn right, she'd made them pay.

And it'd left her all kinds of amped up. As a sniper, she wasn't often involved in any kind of close combat, and had no skills for it. So she was having a hard time believing that she'd gotten out of Badger's office in one piece. It made her feel all funny, recalling how close she'd come to being dead, still feeling the adrenaline-heavy rush of diving into action without a bit of time to consider.

She was distracted from her thoughts by Marone's voice carrying from the console: "Londinium? _Serenity_ is on Londinium?"

She could see the man's handsome face on the screen – he was lit up like he'd just been promised a hand job.

_Where is your mind?_ she scolded herself.

"That's right," Will replied, and his lips stretched into a wide, complacent smile. "As of a few days ago, at least. And get this – they've got some kind of aphrodisiac they're trying to sell to a Companion House. I talked to the man who hired them to make the delivery." He laughed dismissively. "You know, the guy named after a rodent."

_A badger isn't a rodent, you moron,_ Ginger thought distractedly. But she couldn't pull her eyes away from Will's mouth; she was caught up with how the word _aphrodisiac_ had rolled out. Will had been a jībā this morning, no doubt about that. Playing at selling her off as a slave…. Bastard. She couldn't hate him more.

But the man had fine lips. The kind you could chew on. The kind that –

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head; she wasn't going to that place with Will. Never again. No matter how a bit of action might get her roiled.

Oh, but this one had done a number on her. There'd been a few seconds that she was sure she was dead. She'd rolled across the floor, hearing bullets flying above her and Badger yelling at his men to get out of the way so he could have a clear shot and hard, fleshy _thumps_ as Will and the gunmen fought. She'd managed to shelter against the desk, then, on a whim, grabbed hold of the underside of it and pulled up hard, dumping the whole damned thing on Badger.

_Got no use for me, do you?_ she'd thought with more a little satisfaction.

She'd turned to find Will in a knot with two guards – the third was on the floor in the back of the room with a bloody head. Will'd disarmed the two still standing, but he was half pinned and about to get a beating.

As Ginger thought back on it now, she realized that she might have let it happen. She might have slipped out the door and let Will get what was due him. But, at the time, it hadn't even occurred to her. They were partners doing a job, same as always, and she hadn't hesitated to yank the little gun out of her shirt and put a few little stinging little bullets in the side of the man holding Will.

It'd ended soon after that. Well, the fighting part had ended.

"Thank you," Marone said. "This news is helpful. It's very helpful. But I hope you were discreet – if this man contacts Reynolds with a warning, we'll never find him."

"No worries," Will replied lightly. "The rat guy's only concern was his own neck, and he showed no liking for Reynolds. I think he was happy to help us out."

_Happy to stop getting cut on,_ Ginger thought. _Happy to have us leave so he could get that desk off him._ Funny, though, these thoughts didn't shame her. Those men had been out to kill her, and would have done it if she hadn't stood guard while Will did his questioning. And Badger… Badger'd said a gorramn sheep was sexier than she was, then threatened to steal her handgun.

No, she couldn't regret the way it'd gone down. She couldn't regret being alive, and couldn't deny the rush it'd been to win – just her and Will against four armed men. The only thing she truly regretted was that the only body available to her at the moment was Will's.

Not that there was anything wrong with the body. No, the body was actually a damned fine one.

"There's nothing more to be done out there for now," Marone said. "Come directly to Sihnon; I'll be there by the end of today; I'll start questioning the Companions."

"Yes, sir," Will said. He smirked and gave a sharp salute, which Marone answered with a confused look just before the connection shut off with a short blip of static.

_Will, you're a sarcastic wise-ass son of a bitch,_ Ginger thought. But she stayed where she was, frozen as he turned his chair toward her. She expected him to say some sleek words of congratulations, to butter her up and flatter her. He had that look on his face, the one that went with his Best Friend and Good Boss act. But his eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down.

"Well," he said. "I might have known. Shooting people always did get you in a… mood."

Ginger felt her face coloring, but her eyes followed his hand as it slid across his stomach. A very nice stomach, she knew. Dark golden skin and firm ripples of muscle, and just a light scattering of black hair that led down to...

"What say we care take of that?" he asked.

Ginger turned her head away. Her body'd always had its own appetite, but she'd never been weak. She could control herself, and give in only when she chose to.

And – damnit – she had standards.

"You're disgusting," she said.

She wasn't fooling Will; his grin got wider. "And isn't it more fun with someone you don't like?" he asked. "You can be as rough as you want, call me names, slap me around. I know you like it that way."

She turned her back on him. "Stay away from me. I want nothin' to do with you."

"Suit yourself," he said. "Go on and deal with it on your own. That's a shame though. You heard Badger: you might not be getting offers from anyone else."

His laughter chased her back into her small bunk.

o-o-o

Translations  
cào: fuck  
jiāo zòng zhà: arrogant, lying  
jībā: prick


	5. Chapter 5

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

_The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money._

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

_Sorry for the delay - I've gotten into writing Book 3 and forgot all about posting Book 2. Oops! I really am shooting for every 2-3 days, though feedback may make me post faster. ;)_

* * *

**Chapter 5.**

Highland's Second Moon

Book woke to full daylight. It confused him, because he didn't feel like he'd had a full sleep, but then he recalled the situation. Time didn't ever advance in this place. Well, it moved slow enough that he wouldn't be seeing a change in the short time he'd be here.

He worked a hand out of his blankets to check the watch he'd left beside his sleeping pad. Indeed, he hadn't slept all that long, just over half of a usual night. It hadn't even been a full half day since _Serenity_ had dropped them off on this moon. But the crew should be getting to business now, and if things went exceptionally well they could be returning in only a handful of hours.

But of course, things never went well.

Book looked out from the cover of tarps toward the rocks of the hill; it appeared to be a bit darker now then it had been. Thick clouds, he realized. The rain had picked up, and it made a lively patter on the thick plastic above him. The gloom had brought chillier air with it, and Book wasn't looking forward to leaving his warm cocoon. His body was stiff and sore from his labors, and movement wasn't going to be easy.

Two things finally got him moving: the sound of protein sizzling in a pan and the smell of coffee freshly brewed. He pushed his blanket down enough to see that Zoë was the one doing the cooking. She had a full blaze going, and Mal sat next to it with a blanket tightly wrapped around him. Book wasn't at an angle where he could see the captain's face and judge his mood, so he sat up quietly and looked to Zoë for some hint on how to proceed.

Once she noticed him, she gave a small head shake. Book kept to his place.

"Ain't stayin' long," the captain said, and his voice shook with cold. "May not got anywhere to go, but I sure as hell ain't stayin' here."

Zoë didn't reply, though Book could see in the set of her face that it was a struggle for her to hold her tongue. She used a towel to lift the coffeepot off the edges of the fire's embers and filled a mug for Mal; he took it awkwardly in his left hand.

She filled another mug and stepped away from the fire to hand it to Book. Apparently, Mal was in no place to notice. Whatever he was thinking about, it took his full attention.

"Gettin' off this world," he muttered. "Ain't ever lookin' back."

Zoë returned to the frying pan without comment.

"Gorramnit, Zoë," Mal said after a minute, "why won't you talk to me?"

Zoë sighed. "How's the hand?" she asked.

Mal looked down at his right hand, which he was holding against his chest under the blanket. "Broken to bits," he replied. "You know that. Funny, though, it ain't hurtin' much."

"We got good medics, sarge. You got to stay on for a time so they can take care of you, see that you shake the fever."

As soon as she said that, Mal pulled the blanket tighter around him and shivered, like he'd just remembered that he was sick. Zoë moved his sleeping pad closer to the fire; Mal didn't complain when she urged him to move to it and stretch out.

A short time after that, Zoë waved Book over to the fire and poured him some fresh coffee.

"I talked to Wash," she said.

Book looked up at her, but his questions didn't make it past his lips. He didn't want to second-guess any action of Zoë's, even if it'd been her own orders to keep radio silence. The three of them were nearly defenseless on this empty moon; they couldn't be drawing attention to themselves.

Zoë seemed to read his thoughts; she dropped her eyes away from him like she knew she'd broke the rules. "Didn't swap but a few words, just checked in. Jayne's doin' his sellin', and Kaylee's at that med clinic, seein' to what Mal needs. The rest are on the ship, waitin' for her to get back."

Book nodded. Truthfully, it was good to hear about the crew, to know that somewhere out there life was going on and time was moving forward as it should. He glanced toward Mal.

"Is the captain sick?" he asked.

Zoë followed his gaze. "He was," she said.

o-o-o

Six years ago: just outside Èrshuǐ Village, Du-Khang

Zoë takes her meal in a room apart from the main dining hall, which is crowded tonight. The house is full; there's been a horde of detainees released in the past week. The work camp is nearly finished shutting down, so the rumors say.

She's been out of the camp for more than two months, but she hasn't made it far. The rambling farmhouse she's staying at is only a half dozen klicks from the camp, and a constant trickle of Independents come through as they're released. They show up with nothing but the handful of Alliance bank notes that the Treaty says is all a soul needs to set him- or herself up in life. Of course, it isn't near enough, which us why Jeffreys and his crew is needed. These folks need a hand to get them off-world, set them up with a job and a place to live. Zoë sees that as a worthy enough cause.

If she's hoping that one of these stragglers will be a familiar face, she keeps that to herself.

She's in the middle of meeting with the owner of a transport who might do them a service and get a crowd of these folks off this world. Only, he isn't being real generous about the price. It's looking like it might come to personal insults and move on into threats, but then the parley is interrupted.

The door guard (they need one – this village doesn't like Independents) brings in Cottin, a soft old ex-farmer who lives between the village and the internment camp. Cottin never had the steel to be a soldier, but word has it that he tried to help out some during the war anyway, moving supplies along to the Browncoats and providing a shelter for troops who needed it. He got burned when the Independents lost. The Alliance took most of his land, robbing him of his livelihood. That's made him understandably shy of the Cause.

He keeps to his own now, and doesn't offer any help to the survivors of the war. Zoë's always been fine to let folks like him be, as is the rest of the newly forming Underground. So Cottin's appearance here, and the words he spits out, come as a surprise.

"Don't you be gettin' me caught up in this!" he says, wiping rain off his face with a ratty old kerchief. "I don't want nothin' to do with no Browncoat business. Not no more."

Zoë looks at him levelly. "Ain't no Browncoats here, Cottin. War's over."

"Y'all may not be wearin' em, but I know what you're up to." He looks around the shadowed room with blame in his eyes. "You get this straight – I ain't got no part of it. Keep yourself and yours off the land I got left."

"We ain't on your land," Zoë says calmly.

"Bù jīng zhī tán! Try tellin' that to the fella in my barn."

Zoë glances at her colleagues, then back at Cottin. "You got a Browncoat in your barn?"

"S'what I said!"

Zoë pushes out of her chair and grabs her coat off a hook on the wall – it's a tattered black thing; her uniform is put away.

"How long's he been there?" she asks as she pushes her arms into her sleeves.

"Couple a'hours."

Zoë pauses. "How come you waited so long to come tell?"

His face pinches up in a pout, then he shoves a hand in his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. "He gave me pay. I could use it, but not if it means the Alliance'll come looking for him and drag me into it."

"You got some reason to think they'll be lookin'?"

Cottin shifts his feet as his eyes slide side to side nervously. "Why else'd this guy be wantin' to sleep in my barn, stead of comin' straight to town?"

Zoë knows he isn't telling all, but she's sure the truth'll come out in time. She leaves the transport business to Jeffreys and she's out the door, taking a second to fold the collar of her coat up against the rain.

Once they get onto the rough road leading from the village to the camp, she pulls Cottin up alongside her. "Tell me everything," she orders as she strides through the mud.

Cottin has to jog to keep up, but her tight grip on his arm gives him no choice. "Ain't much to tell. He showed just when I finished supper, sayin' he wanted a place to get out a'the rain."

She glares at him. "And you kindly offered up your barn."

"Hell, no! I don't want him there, but he shoved the money at me and went on in."

"He say why he wasn't comin' in to town?"

Cottin screws his face up. "Wasn't up to walkin', I guess."

Zoë looks him sharply. "He hurt?"

"Ain't none of my business," he says stubbornly, then snaps his mouth shut like it won't be opening ever again.

"Mm-hmm," Zoë replies, but she doesn't push him. She'll see how things are soon enough.

They're quiet the rest of the way, sloshing through the mess of the road. The thing isn't kept up; most traffic goes the other way out of the camp, toward the shiny new town that Zoë and her fellow Browncoats have spent the past several months helping to build. (Not that they did a lot, given the shape they'd been in at the time.) She hates this place, hopes to turn her back on this world and not lay eyes on it again. But she can't do that quite yet.

Just over halfway to the camp, they turn toward Cottin's place. He stops by the house to light a gas lantern, then leads the way to the barn, where he slides open one side of the main door and stands aside.

"You just get him out and be on you way," he says. "I want nothin' to do with the lot of ya."

Zoë has no reply for him. She takes the lantern and moves toward the door, intent on doing just as he asks. She pulls out her carbine before she steps in – not that things come to gunfights often around here, but she's learned caution the hard way.

"Hello?" she says into the door, then she jumps aside when something heavy hits the ground just in front of her. She holds the lamp out over it – a shovel. What's more, the shadowy figure of a man is standing just inside the door to her right. She guesses that he'd been about to clock her with the thing.

"Zoë?" a familiar voice says.

She holds up the light. The face on the man is hard to recognize; it's half hidden by a scruffy beard and shaggy hair that hasn't been cut in a good long time. But the uniform she knows – it's the same thing Mal was wearing when they were taken out of Serenity Valley.

"Sarge?" she asks. "That you?"

He's standing a little hunched, his right hand hidden inside the flap of his coat. "Hunh, imagine that," he says lightly, like they've just run into each other outside a general store on a Sunday afternoon.

"What the hell're you doin' in a barn?" she asks.

"Given the options…" Mal says, and he laughs, but it's quickly broken by coughs. Then he lets out a heavy sigh and slides to the ground, his back still up against the wooden wall.

Zoë steps closer. "You injured, sir?" she asks, though that much is clear.

"Guess… you could call it that," he says, and she finally takes in the weakness of his voice. She finds a nail to hang the lantern on, then crouches down to check the damage. She's used to seeing the overgrown hair and the beard; he'd had those growing the whole time they were in the camp. But the face showing behind the bushy growths doesn't look quite like Mal.

"Yesu, Sarge. Who'd you piss off this time?"

"You 'member Fischer?" he asks.

"Hěn yí hàn, I do," she says. None of the Browncoats who spent time in the camp are likely to forget Fischer.

"I guess… he didn't think my attitude was… properly adjusted." Mal's barely visible mouth stretches into a smile for a second, then he doubles up, coughing like he's got a lung he means to be rid of.

"That the case?" Zoë asks.

Mal finishes his fit and nods. "Couldn't stop em from lettin' me walk when my time came, but he and his buddies saw fit to be waitin' outside the gate."

"Gave you a goodbye party?"

Mal gives another short, pained laugh. "Bubbly wine and dancin' women. You should'a seen…"

She puts a finger under his chin and tips his head back to get a better look at him, just to make sure it's not shadows from the hair that are making his face look wrong. "You sure that's you in there?"

She can just make out his grin. "Alliance makeover. Look nice?"

Zoë fights off an urge to hug him, and a more absurd urge to slap him for showing up looking like this. "It's just blood and swelling, sir," she says with more confidence than she feels. "It'll heal up fine. They did break up your nose real good."

"Gunhand, too. Crime prevention. They had to give me back my gun – but didn't want me usin' it."

She looks down at the hand he's cradling inside his coat, and also takes in the way he's sitting stiff against the wall. It makes her think that the body beneath the coat isn't much better off than his face.

"You walked all the way here from the base?" she asks.

Mal nods. "Sorry bout the shovel. Though you might've been one of em. Followin' me."

He slumps forward a bit, and she realizes that he's fading, probably be passed out soon. He certainly won't be walking. She gets to her feet and steps out the door. Cottin is still standing in the rain, like he'd rather be wet than in the company of a couple of ex-Browncoats. She doesn't plan it, but the sight of his sullen face sets her fist to flying.

He squeals in pain as he staggers away from her.

"You have a man at your door lookin' like that," she says, "and you take his money, throw him in a barn, then sit and think on it for a few hours?"

Cottin holds his nose and keeps backing away. "I did come to get you!"

"And didn't even tell me he was beat to hell. I could'a brought a medic along!"

"How's I to know? Man walkin' around like that could be startin' trouble again. Maybe he earned what he got – "

Zoë raises her fist and the man shuts his mouth.

"Here's what you're gonna do, Cottin," she says. "You're gonna get back to the house, double-time. That means you go at a _run_. You find Jeffreys and tell him to bring a wagon and a doctor out here. You got it?"

"I ain't part of –"

"You are now! Get!" She takes a threatening step toward him and the man turns tail. "They ain't back in fifteen," she yells after him, "I'll set fire to this trash-heap myself!"

As the man's wet footsteps disappear in the distance, she returns to the barn to hear a soft laugh coming up from the shadows.

"Always did have a way with folks," Mal says faintly. He must be wet, she realizes. She takes off her coat to lay over him.

"Maybe you ought'a not talk so much right now, Sarge."

Not surprisingly, he ignores her advice. "Bastard Fischer. Said if I stayed… near the base… he'd arrest me. Loiterin'."

His words are getting hard to make out; seems that putting the coat over him is making him realize how cold he is, and shivers set in. She settles down next to him and pulls his body sideways into her lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He doesn't resist. Much.

"Said that after they beat you till you could barely walk, huh?"

"Least… didn't break my legs."

"How thoughtful," she says dryly. She gently lifts his coat to pull his right arm out and have a look at his hand; one glance is enough to convince her that she can't do a thing about it. It's quite a send off they gave him – they've done their best to see that he never holds a gun properly again. His fingers are bent in all kinds of wrong directions.

"This is… first place I got to," he mumbles.

Zoë looks around the dank barn. "You never were any good at scoutin' locations."

Mal might be trying to look offended, but it's hard to tell. "You know… better place?"

"In all honesty, sir, nothing round here is a whole lot better than this."

"Then you just… keep your criticism…"

His voice trails off. Zoë holds onto him until she hears horses approaching.

o-o-o

"Lady Fortune was smiling on Mal that day," Zoë said.

Book frowned at her. "How exactly is that?"

"The crowd of Browncoats waiting for transport included two medics," she replied. "One of em knew his craft well. We didn't have much in the way of medicine or med tech in the village, but I saw to it that the transport ship we had on hand opened its infirmary. They spent a whole day working on Mal's hand, keeping him drugged up so he wouldn't move. They fixed it right in the end. I made sure of that."

Zoë said that last part with a hard set to her jaw; Book didn't ask what she'd done to be sure of it, or what threats she'd used to get into that infirmary. He could imagine.

"If Jeffreys hadn't had his group set up there," Zoë said, "Mal'd be crippled today. Wouldn't be much of a shot, not with his right hand. And he'd have had to hear some bad news a different way."

"Bad news?"

She nodded. "The worst kind. It'd been waiting for a while, but things were a mess back then and certain kinds of news didn't travel to the public, specially the stories that showed the ugliest side of the war."

o-o-o

It's a few days before Mal shakes his fever enough to make conversation. Zoë's finishing her arrangements with the carrier's owner when she gets the word that the sarge wants to see her. It'll be the first time she gets to really talk to him, since the time in the barn doesn't count for much.

Jeffreys has cleared out a small upstairs room for Mal to lay up in till he heals. He's lying on his back with his hand in a bulky cast and his sloppily shaven face a swollen mess, the bruises darkened to angry purples and greens. But he's awake and aware, and looks up as soon as Zoë comes in.

"Zoë – why you're still mopin' around on this world?" he demands, his voice weak but somehow managing to carry plenty of disapproval. It brings her up short, though she should know by now that the sarge isn't one for huggy reunions.

"Savin' your ass, sir," she says.

"Ain't no excuse. You been out more than two months and I told you to get off this rock –"

"War's over and you ain't in charge," she says stiffly.

He fixes her with a hurt expression. "Now, what is this 'verse coming to," he says, "if disrespect like that is goin' on. Just cause you got out of the joint so quick don't mean you can talk sass. I am a sergeant, if you'll recall. Corporal."

He talks tough, but she knows he'd never seriously lecture her about rank, not after the way he got his. This is just his way of feeling in charge. "Of course, sir," she replies, still just a little pert. "No disrespect meant."

"None taken. Now – why ain't you moved on to greener pastures?"

She shrugs. He should know that she's been waiting for him, but if he's not up to admitting it, she doesn't want to either. "Nowhere much to go," she says. She doesn't need to explain that all her family is gone – Mal knows it already. "Besides, there're things that need doing here."

"That so?" He looks around the empty room. It's small, but quaint and homey with country patterns on the wall and wide planks making up the floor. It doesn't look like a place to hold the remains of an army.

She realizes that Mal probably has little idea of where he's at.

"Guess you might call this the last bit of the Independents," she says, explaining without waiting for him to ask. "We ain't fightin' nothing, just trying to help folks get on. It might turn into something more, in time. The fella runnin' it has got some ideas."

Through the bruises, Zoë can see Mal's frown. "War is over," he says.

"Fight won't ever end," she replies, her voice soft. She doesn't mean that she'll be fighting it, just that it'll be there. She's not sure what fight she has left in her.

Mal, on the other hand, has no doubts.

"It's done for me," he says. "Whatever it is you got yourself into, don't sign me up. I just want to get back home and stick to what I know. I couldn't beat the Alliance, I guess I'll have to make a living selling em sides of beef, no matter what crazy rules I gotta follow to do it."

Zoë takes a deep breath. There isn't a way to make this easy. "You can't," she says.

Mal laughs. "Zoë, I may not be much as a soldier, but as a rancher I know what I'm – "

"You can't go home."

"Why not? That against the gorramn Alliance laws, too?"

Zoë sits down next to the bed and looks at the floor. It wouldn't be right to look him in the eye when she tells what needs telling. He should have family with him now, loved ones, but he doesn't have that anymore. Like it or not, the only family Mal has left is a military that exists only in homeless, wandering splinters.

"Sir, you can't go home cause it ain't there."

He's quiet a few seconds, and when he speaks his voice is low and measured, that of a man who's lost near everything, but now finding that he can lose a bit more.

"What's that mean, Zoë?"

"I… I tried to contact your mother when I got out, to let her know where you were. It took some time, but I finally reached one of the ranch hands. Got real lucky, that he picked up the message at the post over on, uh…"

_Quit stalling and get it over with,_ she tells herself.

"It's gone, Mal. Torched. No one's sayin' whose ships did it, but someone fired the wrong kind of engine where they shouldn't'a. It had to have been something big – bigger than anything we had. The going theory is that an Alliance convoy came under attack, and some idiot at the helm of a freighter went into hard burn in atmo. The whole fleet had to follow to get out of the backburn, and that just made it worse.

"It took out half the continent, and that messed with the system. Somethin' with the terraform – the climate's gone to hell. There were three hands away from your Ma's ranch at the time, and they're the only ones that lived."

_Tell him all of it. He needs to know. _

"Your land was right under the main fire," she says, not letting herself pause. "It's burnt to nothin'. Gorramn rocks melted. Even if the atmo and climate get back under control, ain't much gonna grow for a long, long time. Not as long as me and you are livin'."

She sits still, waiting. Three weeks she's known about this, and she's spent a lot of time thinking on how to tell him. The direct way has always been the best with Mal, but she hasn't been able to even guess as to how he'll react. Maybe she should have waited until he was healed and stronger, but, honestly, she feels safer with him confined to bed. He's less likely to get himself or anyone else hurt if he can't move much.

But he doesn't rage. The silence stretches, and still he doesn't stir. She can't even hear him breathe.

"Sir?" she prompts, still with her eyes on the floor. She doesn't want to see his face.

"Get out, Zoë."

"Mal, you know you got a place here – "

"Get out."

Zoë nods and leaves him to work it out on his own.

o-o-o

"He had no place to go," Zoë said, her words coming out with a tired sigh, "and wasn't in shape to travel anyhow. Jeffreys offered him a role in the Undergound. At first, I was sure Mal'd take it. I thought that once he got past his grief he'd be ready to raise hell, pay somebody back for what they did. He had plenty of reason for it.

"I guess vengeance just ain't Mal's way. He's done what he can to stay clear of it, though maybe he does slip from time to time."

She looked toward Mal's bedroll and Book followed her gaze; the captain was stirring. Storytime was over then.

But Zoë had another thing to add. "No matter how bad it gets for him," she said softly. "I think he knows that revenge is a downhill road. It gets steeper that longer you stay on it. I have to think his momma taught him that. Wish I could'a met her. I bet she was a hell of a woman."

o-o-o

Translations  
Bù jīng zhī tán: bullshit  
Hěn yí hàn: Regrettably


	6. Chapter 6

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

**

* * *

**

Chapter 6.

Eighteen years ago

"That's her!" Kari says, excited by the beautiful face on the shuttle's cortex screen. It's the first time since she came aboard the Firefly a week ago that she and Sylvia have gotten the cortex to themselves; they've been waiting for their chance, but the shuttles have been busy. "What's her name? Does it say?"

"Aileen." Sylvia sighs after she says the name, as if to add, _Isn't that the best?_

Kari watches Sylvia's reaction, then she sighs too, copying the tilt of the girl's head and trying to make her tight curls fall over her shoulder the way Sylvia's straight blonde hair does.

"Aileen," she repeats. "You should see her in person – she glows."

Kari's proud that she knows so much, but Sylvia doesn't respond. She must have heard the story at least twenty times by now, and she's not as excited by it as she was at first. But she doesn't stop Kari from talking yet again about her close encounter with the Companion. Kari's not used to that. No one in her own home ever wanted to hear her talk about anything other than what was for dinner and when the laundry would be done.

"She's very nice," Kari adds in a firm voice. "Adolfo adored her. She isn't a whore, I know it."

Sylvia turns to her, her mouth open in shock. "Who told you she was a _whore_?"

"My father."

"Hăo xiào! A Companion is _nothing_ like a whore." Sylvia's tone proclaims her expertise. She's only a year older than Kari, but she's always lived on a ship that travels between worlds. She's seen so much. At first, Kari found that daunting, and was afraid of appearing ignorant, but her understanding of Sylvia has deepened in the days they've spent together. The girl may have traveled a great deal, but Kari's beginning to wonder if sometimes her new friend acts as if she knows more than she actually does.

Still, she's a good source of information, and much nicer to spend time with than Kari's mom. When Kari and Sylvia talk, it goes both ways.

"Do you know if Companions… when they have clients, do they…?" Kari doesn't know how to say it, but Sylvia isn't so shy.

"Jiāo gòu?"

Kari nods.

"Of course. But sex is only a small part of what they do. They're like artists and scholars and diplomats all in one. That's what mother says. They can dance, and play music, and write calligraphy, and they know _everything_."

"Everything?" Kari asks.

"Mm-hmm. They have to, so they can talk to any client, and their client's friends. _Really_ talk, you know. Not just be boring and silly. They have to sound smart and interesting, whether they're with politicians or artists or athletes or business people. That's why they have to study for so many years."

"How do you know all this?"

Sylvia's answer is a bit smug. "I'm going to be a Companion one day."

Kari is shocked; more than that, she's envious. "Do your parents know?"

"Of course! They say they'd be very proud of me. But they're proud of me about everything I do."

Kari doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know Mr. and Mrs. Peterson well – so far they seem much more generous and attentive than her own parents, but she can't believe that anyone would want their daughter to be a Companion. Her own parents would never be happy about that. They'd lock her up for years if she ever told them she wanted to go to the Academy.

Sylvia is still working the cortex, and the screen changes too fast for Kari's inexperienced eyes to follow. But it looks like information about the Guild.

"I'm working on my application now," Sylvia continues, then she points at the screen. "See – it says here that you have to start at the Academy before your twelfth birthday or they won't let you in."

Kari studies the screen. There's a list of requirements, but she only reads the first few items before Sylvia moves on to something else – images of teenagers studying dance, arranging flowers, reading books, painting paper screens. Kari decides that she needs to come back to the shuttle by herself so she can run the controls with her own hands and read this information in full. She begins to pay more attention to how Sylvia works the screen.

"You're going to apply?" Kari asks. "Will they let _anyone_ apply?"

"What? You don't think I could be a Companion?"

"No, that's not what I mean," Kari assures with a smile. "Of course you'd be wonderful."

Sylvia beams at the compliment, and she does look very pretty when she smiles. The brightness of her teeth balance what can be, at other times, a big nose. "I'm sure… of course anyone can apply. I think." She looks at the screen, biting her lip and studying it, and Kari realizes that Sylvia doesn't know the answer. It suddenly occurs to Kari that maybe Sylvia doesn't even plan on applying. Maybe she's just showing off.

This doesn't bother Kari; in fact, it only makes her feel for Sylvia. The girl has grown up on this ship with only her parents, the crew of grown-ups, her older brother, and the occasional foster-sibling to keep her company. It could be that she's lonely. It could be that she just wants to impress her new friend.

Kari smiles as kindly as she can; she smiles the way that the Companion Aileen would if she were here. "The cortex is great. Can you show me more?"

Sylvia's face lights up, and she starts talking fast as she moves on to other things, worlds that they'll be stopping on in the weeks to come. Kari sits back and lets her friend do as she wishes, smiling her encouragement and enjoying how Sylvia responds.

No one's ever been so obviously appreciative of Kari's efforts to be nice. She likes how it works. She likes how the niceness bounces back, and wonders if this is how it feels to hand out kindness all the time the way the Companion Aileen does.

o-o-o

Landsdowne Docks, Persephone

Inara tapped a finger impatiently against the keyboard; this wait was nearly impossible to bear. With every minute that passed, she was lagging further behind in the hunt for _Serenity_.

But she wasn't about to race off to Londinium, no matter that Badger had sent Mal to that world with goods to sell. That had been days ago, and she doubted that _Serenity_ would stay in the Core for long. Tearing across the verse in a second-hand transport wouldn't be the wisest course of action, not when waves traveled faster than any ship. She could gather information without moving a meter, and may very well come out ahead in the end. She only needed to be patient and wait for Lina to return her wave.

She and Lina had arranged a special code so Inara's incoming waves would look anonymous as stored on the House records, but Inara couldn't take the risk of calling attention to repeated calls. Lina would know who the one wave was from. She would know it was important. If she hadn't replied yet, she must have good reason.

Inara knew this, but it didn't make the wait any easier.

Finally, just as the Persephone's sun began to set, the cortex chimed.

"Lina – thank goodness!" Inara gasped. "I was so worried!"

"I could not contact you until I was alone," Lina explained. "There have been many questions about where you have gone. Mr. Marone returned, and was here for most of the morning. I was brought in to speak to him, since it is known that I spent time with you."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing to help him find you. I said that you must have wanted time to yourself, and that you are free to come and go as you wish. He did not seem to accept that, and was persistent in his questions. But he is gone now; he received a wave and left suddenly. Since then, I have been busy with the Priestess. I am sorry it took so long, but there was much to be done because of what Marone told us."

Inara saw reluctance in Lina's eyes and steeled herself to hear bad news. "Shú? What did he say?"

"He claimed to be a special investigator working for the Alliance. His credentials were solid; the Priestess checked several times. We doubted, because what he said was so absurd. Inara – there are charges against you."

Inara felt blood heat her cheeks. This news wasn't as quite as absurd as it would once have been; her slate wasn't pristine. "Charges?" she asked with deliberate calm. "For what?"

"He says you took part in a theft on Niflheim. Some kind of ore processor."

"But… that's ridiculous!" Inara protested. "I worked _with_ the Alliance – I helped them stop the crime! He has to know that!"

"Then come and tell him. Inara, I know you are no criminal, but the Priestess is worried that you may have been taken in by those who are. She's seen that you've been acting strange, and then the way you left…. She wasn't able to deny his claims with complete confidence. If you could just come back and explain–"

"That's what he wants," Inara interrupted as the realization dawned. "He knows I can clear my name, but I'll have to return to the House to do it. He's trying to force me to come back."

"It's best that you do," Lina said firmly. "It is your career at stake, your life's work. Whatever this pirate of yours has gotten himself into, he can find his way out on his own."

Inara shook her head. "No. I abandoned him once. I can't do it again. I won't."

Inara's resistance only made Lina's voice grow stronger. "Inara, take care. You've already been suspended from the Guild."

"What?"

Lina tilted her head and sighed, her eyes showing regret that she'd blurted the news out so suddenly. She continued in a softer, almost apologetic voice, "The Priestess must protect the reputation of this House. She did not want to do it, but she had to suspend your privileges, pending a hearing. You cannot be allowed to represent the Guild until this matter is cleared."

Inara clenched her teeth and swallowed back panic. She turned away from the screen as she thought out the implications of this news; now she truly had no option of falling back on her Companion status. She might be able to risk threatening a criminal like Badger, but she wouldn't be sweeping into any train stations and telling a sheriff that Mal is her hired man.

Of course, she'd still be free to slap the captain on occasion.

Inara couldn't hold back a smile at the memory, although it brought a pang of longing so vivid that it ached. Dear Buddha, she only wished she'd have the chance to slap Mal again. If she went back to Sihnon now, she'd likely never know what happened to him. She'd always wonder if he was still out breaking the law and beating the odds, or if he was locked up in a lightless Alliance prison.

No matter the cost to herself, no matter that it was a stupid thing to do, she had to know.

Lina must have seen the determination on her face. "Inara – do you really mean to carry through with this?"

Inara fixed her eyes on the screen. "I do," she said firmly.

Lina surprised her by smiling. "I thought as much. I know you – I have known you for some time. You always were impossible when you set your mind. I expected that you would not see sense, not even for your own good."

"Well… " Inara stuttered a bit, confused by Lina's light tone. "Does this mean… you intend to help?"

"Of course, and I have the freedom to do it. The Priestess was stern in the presence of Marone – she cannot openly oppose someone with his credentials – but after he left she was different. She used veiled words, but her meaning was clear: she guesses that I have some means of contacting you, and gives me her blessing."

Lina's words brought Inara a rush of relief; Marone's plan was misguided. He must not realize the bond that Companions shared. The Priestess may not be able to act openly, but she would make no final judgment without hearing Inara's defense. That need not happen right away; the Priestess would wait until Inara returned.

Inara smiled. "I owe Aileen a great deal."

"As do I. Tell me; what can I do?"

Inara leveled her eyes at her friend. "The people I'm looking for were heading for Londinium as of a few days ago – to the Companion House in Eastbourne. They were selling selesta."

Lina's expressive eyes showed her surprise. "How did they come by that?"

"Illegally, I'm afraid," Inara admitted.

Lina's white teeth gleamed. "Criminals and pirates, indeed."

"Among other things," Inara said, returning the smile. It warmed her to know that she had support from her friends in the Guild, and the panic that had arisen in her a moment ago subsided. She could do this. "Please, can you check with the House on Londinium? Anything you can find out… Right now, this is the only lead I have. "

"I will place a wave right now. Sheydra is there – I will see what I can learn from her."

"Marone is likely headed to that House as well; his people have heard the same news I have. The wave that called him away from you was probably about that. So, Lina – "

"I know, my dear. I will be careful. And I will tell Sheydra to do the same."

o-o-o

Guild Companion House, Eastbourne, Londinium

The place stank of love-making. Not of sex – there was no tang of sweat or any of the flatter smells that generally come with a good rut, and not a hint of stale booze or smoke hung in the air. No, this place was about a different kind of fornication, one as prettified and shiny clean as the polished marble floor. It was pure as the sunshine beaming through floating white curtains and as sweet as the perfume and incense that tickled Ginger's nose; it was offered by dainty women walking gracefully with their eyes down, the silk of their colorful gowns rustling like naughty whispers around their fine ankles.

But none of it fooled Ginger. This place may look like a palace of delights, where everything a body could want was obediently given, but she'd met a Companion before and she knew better. She'd come up against the steel that held these women's spines upright, and she'd learned to see the cocky strength behind their humble, submissive smiles.

Will knew about it too. He did his share of ogling as the page led them down the hall, but his steps didn't have the usual easy swing and his neck was stiff and tense. He'd been done in by the pretty, delicate Companion on the Firefly, and it must have been eating at his pride ever since. He wouldn't be trusting any of these ladies, no matter how frail and obliging they might seem.

But the man they had come here to find was quite at ease; Ginger heard Marone's voice carry from a sitting room even before they reached it. His drawled words had a note of superior, casual amusement.

"But, my dear, surely you have no desire to protect fugitives?"

A woman replied, her voice just as smooth as Marone's. "Not at all. But surely you must know the law, Mr. Marone. The business of this House is our own, and your jurisdiction does not extend past our doors."

"Were this a matter of…" Marone stopped speaking when Will and Ginger entered the room. His eyes narrowed at them for a second, but he quickly covered his frown with a smile. "Ah – there you are," he said, just as if he'd been expecting them.

He couldn't have been. Will hadn't waved ahead, just led Ginger straight here from the landing port. It wasn't smart. They should have stayed put, hidden and out of the way. It compromised them to be seen here, but Will had seemed determined to come. Ginger hadn't said anything to stop him, because, really, she didn't care. Maybe they'd get pulled from the job for being so careless. That'd be all right with her.

Still, it was odd. Will might be an ass, but he usually wasn't an idiot.

Or maybe it did make a little sense, Ginger thought to herself as the names handed round. Will stared with a kind of disgusted fascination at the blonde Companion who'd been speaking with Marone; he took her hand and leaned forward to almost kiss it, his lips coming close but not quite touching her, like he thought her skin was coated with poison. It made Ginger think back to her little brother, a boy who'd been deathly afraid of spiders but was the first to come see an especially big, hairy one hiding in a corner. Will watched this Companion the same way the boy had fixated on the spider, ready to squash it or run like hell if it twitched in his direction.

Marone finished the introductions and waved at a sofa on the other side of a low table. "Please, have a seat," he told Will and Ginger. "Miss Sheydra and I were just getting to the heart of the matter."

It wasn't an especially large sofa. Will settled onto it, but Ginger moved to a wing-backed chair further away. She didn't want to sit next to Will, not if she could help it.

While the Companion set out and filled two more tea cups, Ginger's eyes wandered. She'd never seen anything so fine as this House. A table next to her chair had a fountain on it; a flat bowl held a small sculpture of a naked woman sitting on a rock under a waterfall, washing her feet. Unlike the residents of this place, the woman in the sculpture wasn't obscenely perfect. Water trickled over her small, upturned breasts and her softly rounded belly and hips. Ginger stared at it, a little mesmerized; though the stone body had bulges to match her own, it was beautiful and blatantly sexual.

She raised her head to catch Will looking at the fountain. For just a second, his eyes raised to meet hers, and a sharp thrill went through her belly. That wasn't right – what this place promised wasn't her kind of sex, and Will wasn't her kind of man.

It had been too long, that was all.

She fixed her eyes on the far wall, determined to ignore tingles that she didn't want to be feeling, but an erotic Indian mosaic there didn't help her state of mind. She tried to focus on the conversation instead.

"Miss Sheydra," Marone said, "as I was saying: were this a matter of the Guild's private business I would never have presumed to take up your time."

"Regardless," the woman replied, "no one outside the Guild is privy to House records. The anonymity of our clients is sacred to us."

"Be assured, I am not interested in your clients. The people I am searching for are smugglers. They would be too, shall we say, thrifty to engage a Companion. They were trying to sell illegally procured selesta."

Sheydra blinked in surprise. "Poaching? You're concerned about poaching? I hadn't thought the higher levels of the Alliance legal department were so concerned with environmental matters."

Marone paused thoughtfully before he replied, "There is more involved."

Sheydra tilted her head and smiled. Ginger didn't know a thing about reading people, and if she hadn't met the Companion on the Friefly she'd have heard nothing but gooey honey in this woman's voice. But there was something under all the sugar. A ploy and a bit of hidden insult, like a middle finger raised inside a pocket where no one would see it. "Perhaps, if you explained, I could be more helpful."

"It's classified," Marone replied. If he saw the woman's game, he showed no sign. "But be assured that by helping me, you help innocent people."

"I see," Sheydra said. "In that case, I will speak to House security. If you'll excuse me…?"

"Of course."

The woman rose and left the room, and Marone turned his eyes on Will. "You made it here in good time," he said pointedly. His meaning was clear; he wasn't happy that they'd come.

"Yeah, well…" Will looked around uncertainly. "Ginger couldn't wait to see a real Companion House."

Ginger glared but didn't reply. Marone picked up his tea cup and sat back like he wasn't going to waste more words on them, not at the moment anyway.

"Nice decorations in here, huh?" Will said. "We should do something like this with our transport, Ginger. I especially like that little fountain."

Ginger didn't look at him, and, to her relief, he gave up his effort to annoy her. They all sat quietly until Sheydra returned.

"Mr. Marone," she said after she took her seat, "I have bad news. I'm afraid that I can't be very helpful. House security reports that two men did try to peddle selesta a few days ago, but they also expressed interest in engaging a Companion. Therefore, they are clients, and the rules of Guild protect their privacy. I cannot give you the security video, nor report the exact time of the visit. In fact, what I've just told you is all I'm allowed to say."

Marone set down his tea and sat back in his chair. His normally friendly expression tightened into a frown. "That's unfortunate," he said.

The woman sat up straight. Ginger thought that if she touched the woman's throat she'd feel her purring like a cat. "Yes, it is. I do wish to help, but I can't compromise the integrity of the Guild's privacy rules."

Marone didn't give up. He sighed and leaned toward her. "I was hoping not to bring this up, as it may be distressing for you to hear, but it's possible that these criminals are tied to a Companion from Sihnon. Her Priestess has suspended her, and she is facing serious charges."

Sheydra's forehead crinkled in a frown. "Oh dear. It's shocking to think that anyone in the Guild would act against Alliance law. Are you sure?"

"The matter isn't completely decided, which is why I need your help. Once I find these men, I may be able to clear your sister's good name."

For just a second, Sheydra's mask slipped. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Is that an offer?"

It was Marone's turn to look smug. "It's a statement of fact."

The woman held Marone's eyes for a long second before she replied. "Then it really is a shame that I'm bound by House guidelines. Nothing would please me more than to help a Companion in need." She stood up. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Marone sat for a few seconds, still staring at Sheydra. Will was watching the woman as well, looking like he had some ideas as to how to get more satisfying answers to Marone's questions. But he didn't have a chance to try.

"No, that will be all for today," Marone said. "Thank you for being so generous with your time."

Ginger couldn't help but feel light on her feet as she followed the two men out of the House. Maybe they really had hit a dead end. Maybe they'd be tied up for a spell, sniffing for a scent to follow, and she'd have time to herself. A day or two to clear out the cobwebs gumming up her thoughts - a good rut or two should do it, if only she could find a man willing to partake.

Maybe it wouldn't be so difficult as she'd been thinking. To hell with Will and Badger – she could be just like the woman in the fountain. She didn't have to be some damned toothpick with big boobs and shiny hair to be pleasing.

She hummed to herself as she walked, and didn't quiet down even when Will turned to scowl at her. He didn't fool her a bit. He'd liked that fountain just as much as she had, and it gave her a heady kind of power to know it.

o-o-o

Translations  
hăo xiào: laughable; ridiculous  
jiāo gòu: to have sex  
Shú?: What?


	7. Chapter 7

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

**

* * *

**

Chapter 7.

Highland's Second Moon

"Where've the guards got to?"

Mal's question caught Zoë by surprise. The captain had been sitting quietly for a while, not paying her and Book any mind, but now he was looking around with wide open eyes.

She glanced at Book, but the preacher couldn't help her come up with an answer. It was her job to play the game here, because she was the only one who really knew what Mal was seeing. She'd been about to open up a bag of protein and fix dinner, but she paused to ask, "Guards, sir?"

"Ain't we supposed to be diggin' today?"

She should have guessed. "Uh… holiday," she improvised lamely. "Alliance holiday – means we all get the day off."

After a long, thoughtful moment, Mal replied, "Ain't that nice. The Alliance sure is thoughtful."

"You know what they say about this place," she said, and she gave Mal a second to guess before she finished: "It's all one big pleasure cruise."

Mal smiled at that, but there was something like a pained wince in how he dropped his head. Zoë chastised herself – Mal didn't have the cushion of several years between himself and the time in the internment camp, and her words were painful to him.

After a bit, he raised his head and looked aside, focusing on the stony hill outside the shelter of the tarps. The rain had tapered off while she and Book talked, and the ground was nearly dry.

Mal looked at Book for a long second, then shook his head, as if he was dismissing what he saw. Zoë studied the captain's face. This place looked nothing like the camp where he thought he was, and Book wasn't wearing anything like an inmate's pumpkin orange jumpsuit or a guard's faintly purple uniform, but Mal didn't seem to recognize the problem. It was fine with her; the constant need to come up with explanations tired her to the bone. The force of his delusion, when it took over like this, saved her some headaches. Probably saved him some as well, which, in the end, was why it was happening.

Mal climbed to his feet. "I could get some air," he said.

"Don't go far," Zoë told him.

He turned back, and his eyes went to the fire and the bags in her hands. "I won't. Just… make sure the food ain't burned. Those kids need somethin' they can eat." He held Zoë's eye until she nodded.

As Mal wandered up the hill, Zoë changed her plans. She shoved the protein packages back into a crate and dug the few meat and veggie packets from the freezer box. There was only enough real food for a few meals of it, and now was certainly the time for one.

Book watched her, then glanced out to where Mal had settled on a rock halfway up the hill.

"Is he back to the war?" he guessed.

Zoë couldn't answer right away. Some unreasonable part of herself resented Book's assumption that he had a right to ask a direct question, instead of leaving the telling to her. But that didn't seem fair. She had to chew her tongue for a few minutes, keep her quiet until she could work out what was really bugging her.

Truth was, the reluctance that made her spine stiffen had nothing to do with Book's question; it didn't have a thing to do with the preacher at all. But she'd started this telling herself, and she couldn't skip the parts she didn't like to think about.

"No," she finally replied. "He ain't there yet. Not quite."

o-o-o

Seven years ago: Branson Reformation Camp, Du-Khang

Zoë walks in a line with a score of other captured Browncoats. They follow a path that's been cleared through piles of shattered concrete and rebar, stepping over pits in what had once been pavement. These streets could be the very same ones she'd fought on years ago, but she can't be sure. There are no buildings left whole, no landmarks to stir memory.

Armed Alliance soldiers follow before and after, corralling the ragged group into a small dusty courtyard. Beyond it is an incongruent smear of brown and green with the charred remains of trees jutting into the dusty air – the remains of a city park, perhaps. Now it's muddy and filled with a cluster of large military tents, the sturdy type with hard sides and the occasional clear plastic window.

A man in a crisp uniform is waiting for them in the courtyard, blocking the path to the tents. He's standing in a tense at-ease position, hands behind his back, and his hard eyes rake over them like he's sizing up pathetic recruits just starting boot camp. His lined skin, the scatters of gray visible in his cropped hair, and the set of his solid shoulders speak of years in the service. He waits as they silently gather into a loose clump, then he takes in a deep breath and speaks.

"I am Major Levin," he says. His voice is deep and rough, but his words are as neat and firm as the folded corners of a properly made-up barrack bunk. "I am the senior officer of this _fine_ establishment."

A few of the Browncoats shift as they look around, and Zoë hears a soft snort of disgust.

"You may be wondering what this place is," the major says, his powerful voice making an even rhythm like this speech has been delivered many times. "You may be thinking that it is a prison, a place for punishment, and that you are prisoners of war.

"It is not, and you are not.

"I'm going to explain to you what this is, and why you're here. Pay attention. I will not be repeating myself, and I do not take questions."

He releases his pose, letting his arms hang as he turns to the side and takes a few slow paces toward a jagged wall abutting the courtyard.

"The observant among you may have noticed that we have a bit of a mess here. At one time, this was a city, and it was well on its way to being a _nice place_." He looks toward the captives while he stresses those two words, as if there's a wealth of meaning behind _nice place_ that the likes of them will never understand. "It became what it is now because the so-called Independent _army_ saw fit to attack the Alliance." He assumes his at-ease position again, facing them full on. "Each of you has admitted to being part of the illegal and immoral attack on this world, a campaign which not only destroyed this city, but cost the lives of many fine soldiers of the Alliance, as well as hundreds of innocent civilians."

Zoë's eyes are fastened on his face, and she sees his jaw tighten with anger. "Now – in case any of you are fuzzy on the details, _we_ didn't ask for this war. You brought it to us."

Zoë hears a soft whisper behind her: _After you came to take over our planets, diăobài_. She shifts her eyes from the major's face long enough to take in the way her fellows are standing, the tensely held necks and clenched fists. Then she looks forward again to see the major's already hard eyes narrow; he can't have heard the whisper, but the general opinion of his audience shouldn't be hard to see.

He continues without commenting on it.

"The destruction of Du-Khang," he says, "was the result of an unjust uprising against a government which has sought nothing but peace, enlightenment, and civilization. Here is what I ask myself: do any of you even know what civilization is?"

He pauses as if he's giving them a chance to answer, but no one's stupid enough to speak up. Zoë has to purse her lips to hold back a smile as she realizes that things would be different if Mal were here with her.

The major's eyes single her out and she quickly blanks her expression. Too late – he's already seen. Disgust crinkles his already lined face. "I don't trust you heathens worth a good gorramn," he says, "but there're folks in the Alliance government who think you can reform, that you can learn to play nice. Good Samaritans in high places mean to give you the chance to do just that. Your service here will result in the dropping of all charges of war crimes against you. You may gain admission into our society as free people with clear records.

"If case you're too thick too figure it out… what I'm saying is that this place is redemption. You are here to earn your place in the Alliance." He pauses to look over the disheveled group again, his thin upper lip rising in a sneer before he adds: "If you can."

o-o-o

"Guess we were supposed to feel shame," Zoë told Book. "Supposed to look at all that mess and blame ourselves for it. Mayhap come to a new understanding of the cost of war, and be so impressed by the shiny new city risin' from the ruins that we'd start drooling to have one of those fine little condos for ourselves. Maybe try for a job sweepin' floors.

"They called it a social program, and I guess that, on the outside, weren't nothin' more to it than that. Certainly, we didn't help the reconstruction. They would have done better without us – we had no skills with that, and they didn't use us for nothing but muscle, even though we weren't much good for labor either. We were too tired. Too sick. Too fresh from the fight we lost."

She opened a small box of dried leaves – basil, a treasure the Shepherd found himself during their visit to New Borjomi, and just the right thing to make the can of stewed tomatoes taste nice. She took a long smell, then held it out for the Shepherd to do the same. There wouldn't be any more of this coming to them for a good long time.

She dumped the whole damned thing into the pan. Can't have too much basil.

"I was in the camp for four months. Mal for was there for more than six."

"Mal? I got the impression he wasn't with you."

"We had got a bit separated after Serenity Valley, on account of his rank and my injury. But he'd fought on Du-Khang too, and they found out and sent him to the camp. He'd got there a week before me, and already had himself a position of sorts. Most of the Browncoats knew him, and the rest knew _of_ him. They expected him to take care of things. Course, with Mal, he couldn't say no to that, and it was just bound to lead to trouble."

o-o-o

Zoë's in her fifth day at the camp when the trouble starts.

Conditions aren't the best (though they get much worse later.) The inmates – or workers, or whatever the hell they're classed as – live in tents with flappy almost-walls that let in the heat of day and the chill of night. They sleep on hard little cots with thin blankets; not the best, but still a great improvement over what they'd gotten used to in the last years of the war.

The simple presence of latrines is at first a luxury, but they're soon a mess of stench and flies, and have to be emptied by the tired Browncoats in their daily chores. The weekly showers are similarly treasured, icy cold water and all, until the plumbing breaks down and clean-ups are limited to what can be had from a few barrels of rainwater.

Mush is served in the food tent two times a day, with lunches handed out as cold meals in the field. Zoë doesn't expect much. No matter what the major'd said that first day, she knows that the victor won't be going out of their way to coddle a conquered army. But there's a certain amount of fuel needed by hard-working bodies, especially when those bodies are fresh out of the bloodiest battle of the war, and she assumes that the Alliance folks will understand that.

She soon learns different.

Zoë later guesses that those in charge of food service are playing loose with their contracts, pocketing all they can of the food budget and filching supplies for their own use. Or maybe they're intentionally punishing the Independents, making mealtime something to be dreaded and nothing that ever satisfies. Whatever the reason, it leaves the inmates in a bad situation.

This day in particular, the breakfast gruel is burned so bad that not a one of them are able to choke down more than a few spoonfuls. Zoë can get by without it – she's born and bred to handle hardship, and always had the strength and will of an ox. But others aren't so lucky. There's a young private at her table whose sunken eyes and gray face speak volumes, and he looks like he'll need someone to carry him through the day of lugging heavy concrete rubble from the streets to the dumpsters. Mal's sitting across the table from him, with no choice but to stare right at the boy's obvious hunger.

The sarge starts to glower. His jaw clenches in a way that Zoë's come to recognize as the onset of problematic events. He scoops up a spoonful of the inedible slop that these folk are passing off as a meal, then plops it back into his bowl with a snort of disgust. His eyes search the tent, then settle on a soldier standing by the breakfast line.

Before Zoë can ask if the sarge is thinking what she knows he's thinking and before she can even begin to tell him that he'd be a gorramned fool to try it, Mal's up and left the table.

The guard visibly tenses as Mal approaches him. (Today, this particular purplebelly is just another suit of armor to Zoë, but later she'll come to know his name and face well.) His features don't change as Mal says a few words in a voice too low for Zoë to hear, though the murmur of talk at the tables has quieted. She's not the only one watching the exchange.

Mal finishes his say and waits for a reply. He folds his arms uncomfortably when it's slow in coming.

"So," the guard finally says, loud and clear enough to fill the tent, "explain to me where you got the idea that the major is taking appointments from the likes of you."

The mess tent goes dead quiet, and Zoë can hear Mal's mild reply. "Got a question for him is all."

"The major doesn't take questions," the guard says, finality in his voice. "Return to your table."

Mal shifts his feet but doesn't turn away. "Well, how's about you hand along a little message, something for the major's information." The guard glares and doesn't reply, so Mal plows ahead. "Look – these folks are not in good shape and got a day of hard labor ahead. They need food they can eat."

"You have plenty of food."

"Have you tried this gōushī?" Mal says, waving a hand toward the tables with a hint of frustration in his voice. Zoë cringes at it; she's seeing as plain as stars in the Black that there's no way to negotiate with this guard. The man's words and looks make it clear – to everyone but Mal.

"I don't have to eat that," the guard says, his tight voice full of menace. "I'm not a murdering traitor."

_No good_, Zoë thinks. _It's no good, Sarge_. But Mal huffs and goes on, gesturing with his hands while he talks. "This place ain't supposed to be about punishment and suffering, right? That's what we heard in that nice shiny welcome speech. Now – how bout you explain to me how starvation and forced labor ain't suffering?"

The guard is holding a sonic rifle loosely across his stomach. It rises a little as his hands tighten on it. "Return to your seat," he orders. "Now."

Mal sighs and turns partly toward the tables, but then his eyes pass over the full bowls of uneaten food. Zoë curses under her breath when he turns back and tries one more time.

"It ain't like I'm askin' for steak and eggs," he says, and he raises a hand toward the kitchen behind the soldier. "But can't this stuff not be burnt to hell?"

Mal's raised hand is enough for the guard, who swings the butt of his rifle down and forward. The sarge isn't expecting it, and isn't in the best of health. He moves too slow to avoid a blow to the groin.

Cries of disbelief and outrage rise from the inmates as Mal grunts and doubles over, then drops to the floor. But the four guards in the tent quickly have their rifles aimed at the tables; any attempt at interference is bound to end badly, and the Browncoats all know it. And more guards will be coming – a guard by the door speaks low and fast into a radio on his shoulder, calling for backup.

The guard who hit Mal is still standing over him like he's ready to hand out more of a beating to keep the sarge in line. But the threat isn't needed; Mal is curled up with his hands clutching his crotch – it's not a dignified position to be in, and sure isn't one to let a man go on the attack. Zoë fumes to see it. Sure, Mal can act in such a way as asks for a smack from time to time, she's seen that herself, but no man should be set down the way this guard's just done to him. It would have been more humane to use the sonic rifle the way it was meant, to disable with slightly less pain and much less humiliation, but _humane_ isn't what the guard's after.

"You're not here to get fat and happy!" he says angrily. "I don't care what they say, you're here to pay for what you've done!"

Though it's hardly been ten seconds since Mal went down, Major Levin bursts into the tent surrounded by a half dozen more guards. His face is already red and his eyes are hard as he takes the scene in.

"What the hell's the situation?" he demands. Before anyone can answer, his eyes settle on Mal and he strides toward the guard who did the hitting.

"Lower your weapon and report, soldier," the major orders.

The guard complies. "This man refused a direct order, sir."

The major glances down at Mal and taps him with a foot. Mal hardly notices; he's looking ready to retch. The major looks at the gun that the guard is still holding like a club, then his glare settles on the guard's face. "And how exactly did this come about?"

The guard swallows and hesitates.

"Report!"

"Sir – he was complaining about the food. I told him to return to his seat. He refused."

"And you struck him?"

"Yes, sir; I did."

The major chews his tongue as he looks down at Mal again. "Did this man threaten you in any way?"

"He… raised his hand."

"Was he threatening you, soldier?"

The guard's face squares out as his jaw clenches. "No, sir."

The major turns slightly to face the guard straight on; he's a big man, and his stance warns of a severe dressing down about to be handed out. There can't be anyone in the room who doesn't recognize and cringe at that, although Zoë would have expected the major to take this business elsewhere. He can't really mean to do this in front of the inmates.

But he does.

"Staff Sergeant Fischer," he says in a hard voice. "Were you present at the briefing held at the onset of this assignment?"

"Yes, sir. I was."

"Were you listening?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you recall the mission statement which I personally took the time to read aloud?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do you recall what it said about treatment of the detainees?"

"I do, sir."

"Then why did you strike this man without provocation?"

Fischer swallows hard, frustration darkening his eyes as he glances down. Mal is partly recovered now – Zoë is relieved that he stays on the floor, keeping clear of the exchange, but he's watching.

"Staff Sergeant Fischer, why did you strike this man?"

"He disobeyed an order."

"He is an unarmed detainee. He is not a soldier. Do you understand the difference?"

"Yes, sir."

"Corporal Smith," the major barks, angling his head toward one of the soldiers who'd come in with him.

"Yes, sir!" the young man replies sharply.

"Escort Staff Sergeant Fischer to the staff quarters. Make a note of this on his record, and see to it that he has extra patrol duty for the next seven days. In addition, provide him with a copy of the mission statement." He settles his eyes on the deflated Fischer. "I expect a copy of it on my desk within the hour, written out by his own hand and not a word omitted."

"Yes, sir!" Smith barks again.

Fischer salutes; the tent is dead quiet while he leaves with the young corporal behind him.

The major doesn't make a move. He stands with his hands on his hips, watching impassively as Mal climbs to his feet. The sarge is still breathing hard and he doesn't quite straighten all the way – he took a hard hit in a delicate place, and it's still hurting him.

"My thanks, major," he says.

"I don't want your gorramn thanks, Reynolds," the major snaps. "And don't you ever speak to me –or any of my soldiers – unless you are first spoken to."

Mal snaps his mouth shut and drops his eyes to the floor. He looks just as surprised as Zoë feels at the major's hostility.

"I smelled your stink the first day you came in," the major says, stepping close to Mal. "You were the one talking when you ought to know enough to shut up, offering your opinion of Alliance _civilization_. And now it's the food that's got you griping. I see that opening your mouth is a habit. I can also see that you don't know how to listen any better than Staff Sergeant Fischer. Difference is, he's a soldier, and you're slime."

Mal looks up at that, but the major has shifted his focus. He looks over the quiet tent as he goes on. "Personally, I don't give a damn if the lot of you waste to scrap. You're malcontents and seditionists. You don't deserve to live under the protection of the Alliance. If it was up to me, I'd shoot you all and have done with it."

His eyes settle on Mal again. "Thing is, like Staff Sergeant Fischer, I am a soldier in a bona fide military force. I have been given orders that you people are not to be damaged. I will see that you aren't, no matter my personal beliefs. Because _we're_ civilized.

"But I'll be damned before if I'll have another of my soldiers taking a black mark because you're too stupid to know your place. You are not here on a gorramn vacation cruise. You don't like the food? Boo fucking hoo."

Mal straightens and draws back, his face tight and pale with anger. The major steps forward to stay close to him.

"One day the idiots who started this experiment will pull their heads out. Meantime, you will do as you're told, exactly as you're told, no more and no less, and keep your mouth shut for as long as you're in these barracks. Are you clear on that?"

Mal's gritting his teeth and doesn't answer; he's nearly shaking.

"I asked if you were clear," the major says, his face right in Mal's.

Mal stares at the major for the space of a breath, then another, before he speaks.

"Yes. Sir."

o-o-o

"It got dirty after that," Zoë said, her words coming with a weariness that the memories pulled out of her. "There was no more hitting, but the food – what there was of it – was awful, like they wanted to show what complaining would get us.

"Things started happening, stupid little things that added up. The latrine tanks would get tipped over when no one was around, and we had to clean up the mess. Seemed that every hour of the night a guard would happen by the sleep tents and make a ruckus, banging on the windows, waking us up. Sometimes yellin' things about incoming, about battle starting, and gorramn if that didn't fool me every time." _And I'd sit up in my cot,_ she didn't add, _trying to catch my breath and convince myself that bombs wouldn't be falling anymore, that the hard sound coming out of the dark was only the laughter of the guards, not gunfire._

She added a pinch of salt to the pan and stirred it. Book had offered to take over the cooking, but she hadn't let him. She needed something to keep her hands busy.

"Got to be rare to get anything near a full night's sleep.

Maybe it was the bein' so tired, or maybe it was not knowing when we'd get out of there, not knowing if we ever would. I don't know what it was. All I know is, the jibes got to be just as bad as the rest of it.

"You see, the major's words about a 'vacation cruise' got around, and the idea took hold. All day, while we carried supplies to the construction sites and spent hours digging holes that a bulldozer could have cleared out in minutes, the guards were jawing at us."

_Browncoats – exercise class on the lido deck in five! Advanced hole digging to sculpt those abs!_

_You folks are lookin' good! I think you've all lost weight! Must be the fine diet…_

"The stuff they said – it was just a bunch of hot air. A load of crap. But it went on, day after day. And we were so tired. So gorramn tired."

_Step lively, kids! Another beautiful day of the rest of your lives… _

"A lot of them were locals. It was their city we were rebuilding. It was their homes that had been lost in the war. It was their families who'd been maimed or killed. You can imagine that they didn't like us much, and they let us know."

_This is what happens when you lose. This is what happens to garbage who get to thinking of themselves as grand and mighty… But keep it up, maybe you can get a job cleaning my toilet someday, you freaks. _

"And you might not be surprised to hear that Mal was a special target. Especially of Fischer's."

_Things working all right downstairs, Reynolds? You sure did curl up and whimper like a girl when I hit you… Weren't planning on having kids, were ya?_

_Hey, Sergeant – we got a new chef coming in. You let us know what you think, all right? I know you got standards... _

"They figured out that I was a pal of Mal's, and that made me their second favorite."

_Alleyne – you got a boyfriend at home? No way you do. You got to be the ugliest damned woman I ever seen…_

_Jesu, Alleyne, you stink. Didn't your mama teach you to wash? _

"I took it. I wasn't about to let them get a rise out'a me. Now, Mal wasn't so good at that. He tried to talk back at first, in an almost friendly way. You know how he is. He tried to make it a joke."

She looked away from Book as she recalled it; Mal had won her over with his humor, but he hadn't any luck with those guards.

_The sarge takes a minute to lean on his shovel and wipes thick, grimy sweat from his face. He looks up out of the muddy pit at a group of soldiers who've been discussing menus for some time now. They've been mighty creative, though certainly unkind to describe such tasty visions to a group who won't see anything but a few spoonfuls of half-cooked muck for dinner. _

"_Could you maybe get us some ice cream cones for afternoon break?" Mal asks lightly. _

_The laughter ends as the men straighten and frown, their hands tightening on their rifles. "Are you speaking to us?" one of them demands, suddenly a soldier again. "Did anyone give you permission to speak to _us_?"_

_Mal glares for a second, biting back whatever words are trying to get out. Zoë watches as something behind his eyes closes off. A defense slams down, and the lesson the major started works its way further in. _

Zoë shook her head. "After a time, Mal cracked. He threw a punch, which made Fischer the happiest man in the camp. Gave him an excuse to use that sonic rifle again, though he was less imaginative this time. Did it the proper way. Mal must have woke up with a helluva headache, and found himself in solitary. Stayed there for days. Reduced rations – reduced even more, can you believe it? – and shut in a tiny metal box, right out in the sun.

"Mal wasn't the only one who tried to fight, but no one could pay back the frustration. Trying only made the guards come down harder. Most everyone learned the lesson sooner or later – it was best to take it all quietly."

Zoë stopped and turned her attention back to the vittles in the pan. She wasn't doing well at describing the camp; the taunts that had burned her then sounded weak to her own ears, like some foolish playground spat that should have been forgotten by now.

She sighed and gave up on it, and moved on with the tale.

"There came a day," she said, "when a bunch of us, those who'd had the good sense to keep our mouths shut since day one, were gathered up and given the clothes we'd come in with. Seems that Parliament Member Branson's Reformation of Independents Act required a certain number of folks to be reformed within a certain span of time.

"We were handed a small stack of cash and let go. It was a good will kind of thing, all over the news. A partnership between former enemies looks nice on the cortex. We help clear the damage and rebuild, they set us up with new lives. The war is over, the peace is on, all us rebel bastards are welcomed in as citizens, and ain't that grand?"

"I'm guessing not," the Shepherd said.

Zoë looked up at him. "You got it. Wasn't anyone who'd hire us. Wasn't anyone who'd rent us a room, and the money wasn't enough to get us much of anywhere.

"Ben Jeffreys wasn't in the camp, but he knew of it and saw the opportunity. That man still believed, still had hope that the fight would go on. He showed up and bought a place out in the country, by a small village a few miles from the camp. We added on to it, made a place for folks to live until they found a place to go.

"Of course, I stayed. I had to wait till Mal got out, and I knew he'd be one of the last. They weren't gonna have any luck reforming him, and he wasn't gonna be any good at playing the game. I told you about the send-off he got from Fischer. Turns out, you take the uniform off an Alliance soldier, you got a man who'll break the rules, same as the worst Independent. I don't suppose Major Levin ever saw it that way."

"Not likely," Book said. "Men like that have their ideas of the verse, and their minds can't be changed."

Zoë gave the Shepherd a sharp look. "I got a feeling that there's a few who can."

Book looked away – she'd caught him with that.

"Anyhow," she went on, "Sarge never said a thing about the months he spent in there after I got out. I'm thinking it wasn't much fun for him."

Book nodded, and they both looked up the hill. Mal was still there, now staring down at his hands, lost in his thoughts.

Zoë let her eyes continue past Mal to scan the sky. It wasn't clear, but it was the lightest gray she'd seen yet. She could almost make out the disc of the sun – it had shifted a bit in the day and a half they'd been here, making a tiny step toward the horizon.

She realized that she wasn't done; she had to explain better.

"In that place, anything we did was grabbed hold of and used," she said. "It shouldn't have mattered, and I knew I wouldn't ever believe the crap they said. But it kept coming, all day, every day. When you're weak and tired and not feeling real bright about your future anyhow, it gets to you. Sooner or later, it gets through."

What she saw in Book's face didn't go so far as comprehension, but there was compassion. She looked toward Mal as she continued.

"You start holdin' in anything that's true to your self. Let them see things that ain't yours, and it don't hurt so much what they do with it. What's real you got to guard. No smilin' loose and free, no showin' pain, no opinion about the food or the smell of your clothes and your own body, no cursing the heat of the sun. You give them anything you're really feelin', it's like showing them a pathway to get inside and tear you up where it hurts.

"I could see it in the faces of the folks in that camp. We came in near broken and wondering how we were still going on when everything else had ended, but at least we could look each other in the eye and see something there, something human. A person who'd share a laugh over those ugly damn worksuits and the color of the food.

"But after the major set the rules and the guards found a way to work inside them, people got to looking different. Their faces closed up, shades came down behind their eyes. It got to be like we were there alone, each of us."

_Except me and the sarge_, she added in her mind. Mal might have closed himself to everyone else, same as her, but with the two of them there still'd been an awareness, a knowing of what hurt and just how bad. No matter how the guards ground them down, that connection couldn't be touched. Remembering it made Zoë straighten. In the end, she told herself, these months were nothing more than another weight on the load that she and Mal carried together, and not the heaviest. It shouldn't matter…

She slumped again and shook her head, wondering why she couldn't just leave it behind her. "Some say that words shouldn't hurt," she said softly.

"It was more than words," the Shepherd interrupted, his firm voice drawing her eyes away from Mal's hunched shoulders. "What they did to you and the captain was torture. It doesn't take knives and needles to torment a soul. They ridiculed your pain and helplessness, took away your dignity. They took away your right to feel, so you never could move past what pained you. Being hurt like that, with no defense, no hope for justice, is a subtle kind of torture. It's insidious in how it hides itself from those inflicted with it. It's impossible to fight what you can't name."

Zoë dropped her eyes, blinking against a sudden weight in her chest that made her eyes feel wet. She'd never thought of it that way. Whenever she thought of those days, it only brought her a sense of disgust and self-reproach that she'd been weak enough to be hurt by those bastards.

Book's voice rose again. "Not one of God's creatures should live under the heels of another like that."

o-o-o

Translations  
diăobài: dickweed  
gōushī: crap


	8. Chapter 8

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

**

* * *

**

Chapter 8.

Seventeen years ago

Kari wraps her arms around her sides, hugging herself against the chill air of the docks. It isn't so very cold, but she's been waiting for some time now, and her blood is running slow.

Mrs. Peterson had wanted to wait with her, to keep the shuttle running so the two of them could sit cozy inside, but Kari had avoided that. She went so far as to resort to trickery, claiming to see her family's transport down the lot. She gave Mrs. P one last quick hug, then took off at a jog with her trunk squeaking shrilly on its crooked wheels behind her. She even approached a conveniently placed vehicle, smiling and waving at the confused man inside, then circling around to hide behind it until Mrs. P's shuttle lifted off.

Kari's not proud of herself, but what she's managed to avoid would be worse than having her last words to Mrs. P be a lie. She can easily imagine her mother's greeting to the poor woman – a tight, forced smile and narrow eyes that keenly watch for any sign of judgment or condescension. Her mother would frown and glance down at Kari, picking up every offending sign that her daughter has grown fond of her foster mother.

No, Kari is right to have avoided all that. The warm air of the shuttle would be more pleasant than the gray dullness of the day, but it wouldn't be real. None of that is real anymore; she's back on her homeworld, and she needs to get used to it.

She stops her slow pacing and presses her feet against the solid concrete, feeling the familiar pull of Sihnon's gravity on her body, then lifts her face to the barely noticeable breath of wind and the smells it carries with it. This is her world again, and she needs to forget how different life is on a ship that travels between worlds.

_The fore hallway of the Firefly (words like "fore," "aft," "starboard," and "port" quickly become common use for Kari) has four bunks: one for Mr. And Mrs. Peterson, one for Sylvia, one for Sylvia's older brother Pete, and a fourth which is kept for guests. _

"_It's a good thing I didn't have another child!" Mrs. P says when Kari first boards. "If I had three, two of you would have to share bunks, and I'd hear no end about it!" _

_Kari has no response to Mrs. P's light words. She's confused as to her role here – servant or guest or family member. And, to tell the truth, she's ashamed to admit that she's never had her own room. Maybe if she had, Susan the social worker wouldn't have taken her away from her home. Maybe if Kari'd had a bigger house and nicer clothes, things her parents often said they wished they could give her, she'd be sad about leaving. Instead, under a blanker of mortification and embarrassment, she's secretly relieved._

_Guilt makes her bite down on her excitement when she sees her room – if that's the right word for it. It's more like a playhouse than a bedroom, reached by climbing down a ladder. The walls (no – "bulkheads") are made of sturdy metal and not plain and square like walls in her own house. The side bulkheads have compartments all through them, the catches cleverly hidden in the metal seams, and the surface furthest from the ladder curves from the deck to the ceiling. A panel by the entrance has buttons for opening and closing the door, changing the temperature, and talking to people in other parts of the ship. _

_Mrs. Peterson assures Kari that this place is her very own. For as long as she stays on the ship, she can keep her things here, arrange them how she likes, and no one else is allowed to come in without asking her permission. She can find quiet and peace whenever she wants it. _

_It's funny though - in all the months that pass, she seldom chooses to be in her bunk alone._

"Kari. Kari!"

Her father's rough voice calls from the far end of the lot. When she looks toward him, he raises a hand and beckons her to come meet him. Kari sighs and lifts her trunk by the handle on its end. The sticky wheels sound mournful as they follow her down the cracked sidewalk.

"Huān yíng guāng lín!" Her father calls out. He slides her trunk into the back of his beat-up transport, the same one he's had as long as Kari can remember. It doesn't look like much, but he keeps the engine tuned so that it purrs like a brand-new Shēchǐ ES, as he so often says. Normally, the large family crowds the thing full, but now it's empty. Kari slides into the front seat. She can't help but feel disappointed that it's only him, and that he's kept her waiting nearly half an hour. He can't be that excited to see her, no matter what he says.

He doesn't explain the delay, probably thinks nothing of it. Seven months ago Kari wouldn't have noticed it herself, because she was used to waiting. But the Peterson's wouldn't have left her like that, not without many hugs and apologies and explanations.

"Did you have a good trip about the verse?" he asks as he powers the vehicle into the air.

"It was all right," she answers blandly. She wants to say more, but, out of a habit she hasn't practiced in seven months but now finds inescapable, she waits for him to ask. If she starts volunteering information, he may just interrupt her to change the subject as his mind wanders away from her words and toward whatever is occupying him these days. That's another thing she'll go to great lengths to avoid – not being heard.

It dawns on Kari that she doesn't want to talk unless she's sure she'll be listened to. Probably, she's always been like that, and that's why she's so quiet at home. She's never seen it in herself before.

"Well, we've been busy here," he says, and he goes on to tell why. With cheer and optimistic energy he describes the many successes Kari's mom has had in vocational school, and the fine new job she's found. He also details the changes in his own career; he's gotten certified to work on construction machinery, and that's opened up countless opportunities to him. More pay, and it's allowed him to relocate to a much nicer neighborhood. They have a new house and all kinds of plans for the future.

He talks nonstop for the whole ride, leaving only short gaps for Kari to slip in a few _Oh?_s and _That's great!'s _and one _You must have been busy._ On the inside, she feels an unfamiliar frustration boiling up. He hasn't changed, not in the way that's really important. He still doesn't know how to listen.

She looks out the windows at her new neighborhood, what she can see of it. The old transport isn't permitted to travel in the higher lanes, the ones that the kind of view Kari'd seen on her way down through the atmosphere. He has to wind through the lower routes, staying just above the warehouses and shopping centers that spread between the high rises of suburban business centers.

It's unmistakably different from the city center where she'd grown up, but also the same. The smell of the air, the ID plates on the transports, the adverts painted on the roofs below – all these are familiar, as familiar as the back of her own hand and the pattern of faint freckles on her arm. For an odd moment, she wonders if she's been away from herself all this time, if the past months were a dream, and now she is waking up.

She shakes her head – it doesn't seem possible. Her goodbye dinner with the Peterson's had only been a few hours ago. But now it feels like it never happened, as if it was just a scene in a book she'd read.

_Everyone on the ship is waiting for her, even the two hired men who usually keep to the lower deck are gathered around the table tucked like a café booth into a round alcove of the main hall. It's a special occasion; after more than seven months, Kari is going home tonight._

_She's determined not to be down-hearted. She's not going to miss out on her last chance to talk in a loud voice about nothing in particular and get eager smiles and enthusiastic replies. She's not about to sit still and quiet when she can fold her feet up under her and reach across the table for another bread roll, no matter that it's bad manners. And she won't even try to hold back her laughter at jokes that her own parents would think in poor taste._

_After helping with the clean-up, Mr. P heads below decks with the hired men ("They do like their liquid dessert," Mrs. P says with a wink) and the room quiets. Sylvia's brother Pete slips out of the room; when he returns he timidly offers Kari a flat rectangular box tied with a blue ribbon. He stands with his hands clenched while she opens it. It's a pack of pastels – a full array of colors, all whole and unbroken, not like Sylvia's collection of worn old stubs that the three of them have often amused themselves with._

"_I just… I thought you make nice pictures…" Pete murmurs. "And you should have your own…"_

_His face is as red as the reddest crayon, and Kari's feeling a little flustered herself. But she sees that he's sneaking glances at her, short and intent, before he looks away again. It's as if the sight of her burns his eyes. _

He thinks I'm pretty, _she realizes._

_She's pleased but confused – she never even guessed that he liked her that way. She's certainly never tried to win his affection, and now that she has it, she's not sure what to say. She senses that there's some kind of power here, like having the Cortex controls in her own hands, but she doesn't know what to do with it._

_Sylvia skips by. "Pete likes Kari! Pete likes Kari! Pete and Kari, sittin' in the shuttle, hopin' for a kiss and a squeeze and a cuddle …"_

_Pete turns his flushed face on his little sister like he's relieved to have the distraction, and he chases her out the aft hatch toward the engine room._

Kari's father points toward the new house even before it comes into sight. It's a great improvement, much larger than their old place, and it's in a quiet neighborhood outside the thick air and noisy streets of the city center.

She's the first of the children to return, and the house is quiet. There isn't yet enough furniture to fill it properly, and the empty rooms and open spaces seem to gape and echo. The quiet weighs on her shoulders as she follows her father up the stairs to her new room. He doesn't leave her time to unpack her trunk, but hustles her back down to where the large dining room table is set for three. That explains why he came to get her alone – her mother had been busy cooking a welcome dinner. Kari is so pleased that she doesn't tell them that her own internal clock is running on ship's time, which is several hours ahead. She's more ready for bed than a second dinner, but she's not about to refuse.

Her mother greets her with a hug, and for a second Kari is ashamed of her dark mood. Her mother has missed her, just like Mrs. P had said.

_Mr. Peterson needs to take the ship to pick up supplies at an orbital base, so. Mrs P pilots the shuttle down to the surface. Kari sits in the co-pilot's seat, leaning over the console to watch her homeworld approach. The small craft shakes as they enter atmo, and the black outside the window gradually shifts to blue. Then the flight smoothes out and they're soaring through towering clouds that turn gold as the ship sinks into the sunset. Kari wonders when she'll see such a sight again._

_Mrs. P leans back from the controls as the auto-pilot takes over, but she's quiet. After a few minutes, Kari tears her eyes off the heavens outside and finds that she's being studied._

"_Most of them are bitter," Mrs. P says, her voice thoughtful. "I've had fosters hide in their rooms, and not come out except to be sullen and spiteful. I guess it's not surprising. They've been torn from their homes, and they can't help but blame me for it."_

_These words make Kari blush to remember that she hadn't been so happy herself, not in those first hours. She hopes she hasn't ever been rude. It must have been strange for the Peterson's, to have strangers come to live in their home. Especially those who don't want to be there, who behave badly. _

"_It must be hard," she says softly. "For you to take care of us like you do."_

"_No – not at all!" Mrs. P says. "I didn't mean that! It's rewarding. Have you ever had a cat? But you've seen them, right? Well… it's like getting a cat to love. It may be work sometimes, but it's the loveliest thing when they finally come around, when they let you take care of them, and you see how they're happy." She stops and tuts. "And there you go getting me to talk about myself again – you always do that! I mean to say that you're not bitter like those others. I could see it was scary for you, those first few days, but then you just settled right in. Sylvia raves about you. She's going to be crying for weeks! And as for Pete – well, I think you're breaking his poor heart."_

_Kari wants to deny that, out of modesty, but she thinks of the pastels packed carefully in her trunk, and she can't. _

"_You're breaking my heart, too," Mrs. P says, and Kari sees that the woman's eyes are sparkling with tears. "I've never known a girl to have as much grace as you. You've been like a shining light on our ship. You're always such a joy! I'm going to miss you!"_

_The words make Kari feel warm and happy inside, but also pained that she may not ever see this woman again. She steps back from the console and pitches herself into Mrs. P's arms, letting the soft hug engulf her._

"_Don't make me go," she says. "I want to stay with you!"_

_Mrs. Peterson draws back and pets her hair. "Oh, honey. You can't. You know I'd love to keep you, but I can't take you away from your own family. Just think of how your poor mother would feel. She must miss you so much!"_

_Kari doubts that, but she won't admit it. Not ever. She nods and hugs Mrs. P again, trying to stay in that embrace as long as she can._

"So, which worlds did you see?" Kari's mother asks as she passes a serving bowl.

"Oh… I didn't go out that much," Kari replies awkwardly. She's not used to speaking of herself, not with her own parents, not without any younger siblings to interrupt. Her voice seems to hang thin in the air, to echo off the bare floors and walls, all of which are regular and square and a pale shade of off-white. They look feeble compared to the sturdy bulkheads of a ship.

Her father is surprised. "You mean you stayed on board the whole time?"

"Well, not the _whole_ time."

He smiles, as if he's fondly suggesting that she's silly. "So? Then where did you go?"

Kari opens her mouth but can't think of how to start. This is her chance – he's asking. But she just can't seem to do it; under the critical gaze of her mother everything she can think to say will sound meaningless and dull or – worse – be taken as insolence, disrespect. She can't think of a story to grab their attention without sending them into spasms of defensiveness. How can she express the joy of her journeys without sounding like she wishes she was still there?

Her mother is tired of waiting. "Was there a lot to do on the ship?" she asks impatiently.

Kari wants to light up, to be the pretty, energetic girl that Pete was too shy to look at and Mrs. P was so fond of. She wants to chatter away like she had just a few hours ago, show her parents what a bright, entertaining person she can be. She straightens in determination. Things can be different now. There's no reason she can't be herself – her best self – here in her own home. There's no reason her parents don't love her just as much as Mrs. P; they just show it differently, and there's nothing wrong with that.

She takes in a deep breath, and the words finally come.

"We couldn't go anywhere most of the time, since we were in the Black, so we had to make up games. Mrs. P was really good at charades. She was really funny too – she'd play at getting mad when Mr. P couldn't guess an easy one. She couldn't talk, but she'd turn bright red and jump up and down, and once she even… " _Too much,_ Kari realizes. Her mother is staring at her plate, her lips pressed together. Kari can't imagine her own mother throwing a mute temper tantrum in front of a giggling audience. Her mom is probably thinking the same thing, and hearing this as criticism: _You're not as good as my foster mother, and in only seven months I learned to love her more._

"I got to pilot the ship once," Kari goes on, changing the subject, "for just a few minutes when we were way out and there was nothing to run into. Um… Sylvia taught me how to work the Cortex, and how to draw. Pete showed me calligraphy, and I made a banner for over my bunk. I had my own room, and I – "

"You'll have your own room here," her mother interrupts. "And you'll be going to school. You'll be able to learn a lot of new things. But we'll need you home afterward to make dinner. I'll be working into the evening most days, and we'll save a lot of money if we don't have to pay the nanny to fix meals."

Kari's father speaks more gently, but he continues on the same topic. "The school you'll be going to is a good one. They focus on technical fields – engineering, urban planning, useful types of things."

Those options, while practical, don't sound thrilling. "I'd like to study calligraphy if I – "

"Nonsense," her mother snaps. "Scribbling won't pay the bills. Kari, if you ever fall behind in life you'll get trapped. You won't have any options, and I don't want that for you. You can play games once you're settled and steady."

Kari nods and looks down at her plate. Her father must see that she's bothered; in an attempt to cheer her up, he goes on about her new school, about how he made sure the teachers were good and the graduates were apprenticed to respectable employers. His effort to cheer Kari is misguided - she's not ready to hear about that. The untold stories of her months of travel, of the person she can be and the strong support a family can offer, have been pried loose and pile up in her mind.

All through the meal, she feels like a hand is pressing her chest. She feels like she's suffocating. She doesn't feel pretty now, not like a shining light. She feels small and unimportant. Invisible. The energy of the other person she'd been – the pretty, bright, likable girl – drains out her, leaving a numb, quiet shell.

After dinner, she goes to her room to unpack. The pastels are still in pristine condition, and she sits on the floor while she opens the box, remembering the care Sylvia used in packing them. She looks about her room. Her very own room. She wishes she wasn't alone in it.

But it isn't her own parents she wants, and it isn't her younger brothers and sisters either. Before long, they'll be crowding her again with their demands and expectations, as if they have a right to take up every minute of her life without giving anything back. No, her family are not the people she wants with her. And the Peterson's… no matter how fond of her they are, and much as she's grown to love them, they don't belong to her. A person can only be born to one family – you can get lucky, or you can get trapped.

She wipes her eyes in frustration. She can't live this way. Seven more years of school, and then she'd be an apprentice in some trade she hardly cares about. And maybe along the way she'll meet a nice boy like Pete, someone who think she's pretty, and he'll take her on dates and want to kiss her, and then maybe someday they'll get married and she'll start having babies of her own...

The feeling that wells up in her stomach can only be called revulsion. That life is not the one she plans to live. She has to find another way, her own way. She has to do something.

Sylvia's words repeat in her ears: _"See – it says here that you have to start at the Academy before your twelfth birthday or they won't let you in."_

Kari feels determination replace the dread in her stomach. She's eleven years old; she doesn't have a lot of time.

o-o-o

Landsdowne Docks, Persephone

"It is as you told me," Lina said. "Two men attempted to sell selesta in Eastbourne on Londinium, and were very nearly detained by House security. I am sending you the capture." Her voice took on a teasing tone and her eyes sparkled on the cortex screen. "I am surprised, Inara. I thought you would only form connections with _skilled_ criminals."

Inara ignored Lina's playfulness; she was too high-strung to return it, too focused on the attachments that Lina had sent with her wave.

"Marone has been given this information as well?" Inara asked.

Lina shook her head. "Your friends qualify for the protection we offer all our clients. You will hear no sound with the capture, but one of the men – the big one – requested our services. If 'request' is the correct word..."

Despite her trepidation, Inara couldn't hold back a smile. She had no doubt as to who _the big one_ must be, and Jayne's behavior in a Companion House wasn't hard to imagine. "That's not surprising," she said, "but it is fortunate."

"Very much so. Sheydra made it clear to Marone that these men are under our protection as Guild clients. But you must tell me – which of the two is your pirate?"

Inara sighed. She should correct Lina of the notion that any man was hers, but her friend's mood was comforting and she didn't want to ruin it. It also cheered Inara – in a fluttery, nervous way – that she'd be seeing Mal, even if it was only in a capture.

"It's certainly not the big one," she muttered, then she tapped the screen to play the video on the console's second screen.

She had to swallow back disappointment that neither of the men was Mal, but she couldn't suppress a fond smile at who she did see. The capture had been taken from a cam concealed over the doorway of a small sitting room. Jayne, wearing a familiar but highly inappropriate Shepherd's frock, sat in a high-backed chair with a teacup in his hand. He sniffed at the tea and attempted to sip it delicately, but he was sitting with a slouch and his legs were flopped wide open. His posture screamed: _Dress me how you like, I'm still a bad, bad boy._

Wash, on the other hand, looked small and nervous. Simon's vest might have been fetching on the pilot if he'd sat up straight, but he was hunched over and fidgeting nervously, his head turning from Jayne to the doorway under the camera and back. His body language begged: _We're harmless, really we are. Please please please don't arrest us! _

Inara shook her head sadly. Why had Mal sent these two to a Companion House? He could have done a much better job if he'd gone himself. Buddha knew, Inara had never able to read him; all her training had availed her nothing with _Serenity_'s captain.

"Marone hasn't seen this, you say?" Inara murmured.

"No. But I doubt it will stop him for long," Lina replied. "Sheydra said he seemed quite determined, and not a man to be discouraged."

Inara didn't immediately reply; her attention was caught by the video. The field of view didn't include the doorway, but it was clear that someone entered and briefly spoke to Wash. The pilot looked worried for a few seconds afterward, tapping his foot nervously, then he exchanged inaudible words with Jayne. Whatever the merc said didn't calm Wash; he jumped up, grabbed a box from the coffee table, and left in a hurry. Jayne stayed seated for a few seconds, then his head tilted and his face twisted – a few very bad words being said, Inara guessed – and he stood and stalked out of the room with an angry set to his shoulders.

So Wash was the one who'd gotten them away in time. Inara hoped that she'd have the chance to congratulate him on his escape.

"So… which of them is it?" Lina asked.

Inara forced her eyes back to the screen showing Lina's bright eyes in her dark chocolate face – her friend had been watching her this whole time, and had surely read a full novel of emotions crossing Inara's face.

"Neither, I'm afraid," Inara said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.

"Then I suppose I will have to wait to meet him later."

"Yes… I suppose. " Inara meant to say more, but words escaped her. Why indeed hadn't Mal gone to the House himself? He would only stay out of a job if he had something more important to tend to. What could that be?

"There is more," Lina said into the lengthening silence. "I have captures of Marone and his colleagues. It took some doing to put this all together for you, but I hope it will help. I only regret that I cannot do more."

Inara forced herself to focus. Seeing Wash and Jayne, even on video, scrambled her senses. It'd been only a matter of weeks since she'd lived on _Serenity_, but it felt like years. Her life in the Black, her life with the Guild, the life she'd lived before… all were jumbled together in her mind.

Lina broke the silence again, her tone more sober than it had been, her playfulness fading.

"Inara, as much as my curiosity begs for answers, we must use care. Some of the things I have seen in the past day worry me, and I do not think it is wise for us to talk often. This matter is growing bigger as time passes. The less connection between us, the less likely they will find you through me." Lina's eyes showed regret. "I begin to understand your warnings to be cautious. I feel a weight in these matters, as if there is an urgency to it, and a power behind it, that I do not wish to provoke."

"I understand," Inara said. "You've done a great deal, and I owe you plenty already. More than I can ever –"

"None of that," Lina interrupted. "As long as I may meet your smuggler someday, all will be balanced between us."

Inara smiled. "I'll do my best."

"I hope that the information I have gathered will bring it to pass."

"I hope so, too."

"Take care of yourself, Inara."

"I will," Inara said. "You do the same."

Then the connection was cut.

Inara sat frozen for some time. She understood her new reality well enough: she could contact Lina if she needed to, but doing so too often would draw attention, and it was unclear how much more she could learn from her friends in the Guild. If at all possible, she had to make progress on her own from now on.

She roused herself and looked over the other attachments to Lina's wave. There were several, though they were short in duration. Inara watched each one, taking notes as she went. The clips were taken from a collection of surveillance cameras, and breathed hope into her. Much could be done with this.

But not by her. Hacking wasn't taught by the Guild, and Inara didn't have the authority or skill to access the kind of databanks that would be needed. She needed help. She needed someone who could poke their electronic fingers into every part of the verse.

Inara smiled. She knew exactly who to talk to.

o-o-o

Eastbourne Landing Docks, Londinium

Trevor Marone poured a few fingers of scotch and switched on the large wall-mounted viewscreen before he settled into a soft leather recliner. He had to smile at his setting; if he'd known that military leaders lived like this, he might have chosen a different career.

Of course, he quickly amended to himself, he didn't mean that. His civic duties on Oeneus had gotten him more involved in Alliance government business than he'd ever imagined – or wanted – and he didn't plan on this being a permanent thing. In fact, it couldn't end soon enough for him.

The information he was gathering from Londinium was a large step in the right direction. The visit to the Companion House had been frustrating; Sheydra had been holding back information, of that he had no doubt, but her lack of cooperation was turning out to be only a minor setback. He wouldn't need to put any more pressure on the Companions. The one thing he had learned was that Reynolds' crewmen had indeed been to the House, and that was enough.

Though Marone didn't know the exact time of the visit, it hadn't taken long for his staff to find a spike of activity within the House: communications, encoded, but attention grabbing. Guild security being summoned, he supposed, because at the same time city surveillance of the streets outside recorded two men fleeing the House. Neither was Reynolds, but Marone didn't lose heart. This was it, this was the right trail. His staff was currently following up, like bloodhounds tracing a scent to its source.

In the meantime, Marone had a second clip of video that was more promising. He'd suspected that Captain Reynolds would be having problems by now, so he'd had his staff check in with medical facilities in and around Eastbourne. It hadn't taken long to hear back about the unauthorized use of a university's holo-imager by persons unknown.

It'd been clever of _Serenity_'s crew to use the place; security was minimal, and no one monitored the cameras in real time. But recordings had been made and, at Marone's orders, the university security staff had spliced together video of the intruders and sent it over for his viewing pleasure.

He sipped his drink as he watched a capture of three EMT's entering wide, sunlit glass doors. Despite the relatively poor quality of the video, two of the faces peeking out from blue caps were immediately recognizable to him. Marone had met and worked with them on Oeneus. The younger woman – Kaylee – had been the friendlier of the two by far, although he believed that he'd won Zoë Washburn over in the end as well.

The view cut to the inside of an elevator for a moment, and Marone leaned closer to the screen to study the man he'd seen only in file photos.

"Captain Reynolds," he murmured softly. "There you are."

The trio left the lift, approached the imager room, and passed inside. Marone reclined again and watched impassively; he didn't expect to get much out of this video, besides verifying that his quarry had indeed been on Londinium on the day in question. The footage of the three leaving the hospital was the most vital information to be had, and that was being checked by underlings he had assigned to the task, specialists connected into all the information lines of the Alliance.

But his interest was piqued but what happened in the imager room. Reynolds appeared to have a breakdown, collapsing next to the patient bed. There was no sound with the capture, but Marone could see that the man was yelling as he rose to his feet and pushed his second in command's offered help away.

Marone sucked in a surprised breath when Washburn punched her captain. He was still agape, watching the two women struggle to lift the unconscious man onto the scanner bed, when an incoming wave interrupted the viewing.

Marone paused the capture. The call was from the young tech officer in charge of tracking Reynolds and his crew.

"What?" he asked shortly.

"We've nearly got them, sir," the young woman said with a note of pride in her voice. "The two men who fled the Companion House returned to a Firefly transport. The three who left the hospital took a shuttle back to the same ship. I can patch in recordings –"

"Never mind," Marone interrupted impatiently. "Where did they go?"

"Out of local space. Given the vector they departed on, I checked with monitoring buoys and was able to track the Firefly until it passed out of regulated space a day and a half ago. It's possible that they disconnected their pulse beacon after that, because they haven't been detected since, but I can make some guesses as to where they were heading."

"Where?" Marone demanded.

"Given their course, I conjecture their destination to be St. Albans, Muir, or Highgate. The first is the closest– "

"Which of these planets have medical facilities?" he demanded.

"Sir?"

"It's not complicated," he said, the words coming out sharper than he'd intended. "Find out what kind of medical facilities these worlds have, and get back to me immediately."

"Yes, sir," the woman responded, looking downhearted. Marone felt a little ashamed; having this level of military authority was a strange thing for a lifelong politician. He was accustomed to using charm and charisma to get his way, a method he greatly preferred. He didn't enjoy verbally beating people into submission.

"Oh, and Corporal?" he added.

"Sir?"

He pulled out his old persona and smiled. "Nicely done."

The woman almost returned his smile – almost – before she cut the connection. Marone sighed. The military just wasn't his place. The sooner this chase ended, the happier he'd be.

But he couldn't leave Londinium, not yet. More needed to be worked out with the OPR as the official side of this business moved forward. Someone else would have to go after the Firefly. At least the search was narrowing: St. Alban's, Muir, or Highgate.

He dialed the code to Will and Ginger's transport.

o-o-o

Translations  
Huān yíng guāng lín: welcome


	9. Chapter 9

**Back Stories Book II**

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

* * *

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

_This chapter starts a bit heavy, but doesn't stay that way. Well, except for what I hope will be a little bang at the end…_ ;)

* * *

**Chapter 9.**

Highgate's Second Moon

The place lent itself to storytelling. It was a lost kind of moon, a cloudy, colorless void that made the distant places and past times that Zoë spoke of grow beyond the telling, their details of sight and smell and feel overtaking the pale gray sky and darker gray rocks. To Shepherd Book, the damp landscape was no real place, but rather a blank canvas where Mal and Zoë's past could be drawn for his eyes to see.

The moonscape clearly had an effect on Zoë as well. The normally private woman whom Book had known for a year and a half, but maybe never quite known in full, waxed on in an uncharacteristic way while the rain and the captain's awareness came and went in slow waves. Not that she'd ever been one to be self-conscious when she spoke, but she'd certainly always been guarded, and Book knew that what he was witnessing here was a rare thing.

In the hour just past, her words had been quiet as they painted an even quieter picture of the aftermath of the battle of Serenity Valley. Like the measureless hours that had passed since the ship of the same name left the three of them here on this moon, time on the battle-marked fields of Hera had been hard for her to reckon. The days of Zoë's memory, as she told Book, could only be counted by a growing silence and chill as the wounded passed on and the comforting fires built of what kindling could be had died their own slow deaths.

Though events in this portion of her past were sparse, Zoe found plenty of words to say, and the canvas in Book's mind was slowly filled with rich detail. In the background was a sky stained with oily smoke, and the ruins of war machines and charred bodies littered the hillsides, covering the blasted remains of nature. Slopes once carefully brought to life by optimistic terraform engineers and planetary biosphere specialists were now spoiled by the realities of human strife and the ruin it brought. The faces of the dead were mercifully indistinct in the distance, but in the foreground, on a low hill that rose to a circle of stones, the blank eyes and slack mouths had enough form to be recognizable, to allow one to imagine the smiles and laughter that had animated these men and women before they ended in violence and pain.

In the center of the painting in Book's mind's eye, sitting against the cracked yellow stones on the hill, is a young sergeant whose eyes are as dead as the corpses around him. When large med ships pass quietly across the sky, the young man stirs and rises. A tall black woman stands beside him.

o-o-o

Seven years ago: Serenity Valley, Hera

Zoë stays on her feet as another group of wounded are carried from the silent battleground. It wouldn't make much difference in the grand scheme of things if she gave up and stretched out on the blood stained rocks, but she's chosen her place at the sarge's side. As long as he's still standing, she'll be next to him.

Anyhow, there isn't anything the matter with her. Not really. She hasn't eaten much in a week, nor had more than a mouthful of water here and there, but that's true of them all. As for injuries, she has her share of bumps and scratches and one good rip where a bullet passed a hair too close to her shoulder – come to think of it, that last one throbs a bit – but a little infection won't stop her from using her arm. She's healthy enough.

"How many we got left?" the sarge asks, his words sluggish and eyes heavy. He'd been a bit faster with the orders when the med ships first showed, but that's more than a day ago now. The hours have passed long and slow since as the wounded are moved a few at a time, loaded onto medical shuttles to be taken for treatment.

Like Zoë, Mal's not hurt much, but as the battlefield clears and his charges dwindle he seems to wilt. Probably, the only thing that keeps him going are the few soldiers in his care. These folks need his strength, and he's giving all he's got. Zoë's trying to do the same, though it wears her thin without seeming to make much difference. She's never had the gift that the sarge has, never been able to rally a person's soul with nothing more than a few words said in just the right way.

"Two left," she replies. "Chen and Richards back yonder." She nods toward the sheltered area where the wounded are being kept out of the wind.

"Chen still breathin'?" Mal asks.

"Last I checked."

She'd have thought that the most seriously wounded would get an early exit, taken to those clean, well-stocked Alliance med ships. But when the Alliance medics had first shown they'd taken one look at Chen and moved on. When Zoë'd called after them, they'd said that the young private with two bullet wounds in his chest wouldn't make it an hour, and wasn't worth the effort.

And now he's made it through more than twenty four hours. Chen's become a cause for Zoë, a source of hope that she can talk these Alliance people – who have to be nothing worse than people, in the end – into showing that they give a damn. That they can be made to care.

"You go keep an eye on im," Mal says dully. "I'll send the medics over, soon as they get back."

A few minutes later, she tells Mal not to bother about Chen.

About an hour after that, the medics make another pass. Richards is the last of the wounded in this part of the field, and the transport has a bit of space left. Mal nods to Zoë; it's finally their turn to leave Serenity Valley.

She's not sure where they're taken. Something in orbit; likely a big ship by the feel of it. There's a vibe that massive cruisers have, a subtle depth to the background hum. This could even be a cruiser, one of those enormous floating cities with nearly all the perks one can get planetside, including artificial sunlight and bone fide trees in a domed arboretum.

Of course, the captured Independent troops won't be seeing any of that. Those not in need of medical attention, the ones suffering from nothing worse than exhaustion, near-starvation, and wounds that don't interfere with walking and talking, are led down a short corridor to the open hatch of a large bay. They give their names and ranks to a clerk at a fold-out desk and are each handed a small cardboard box before they enter.

The room has no ports or other hatches, just blank bulkheads and a dark gray deck that most of the already captured Browncoats are stretched out on. It's not a bit soft, but a flat surface with no sharp-edged rocks stained with soot and dried blood is better than they've seen for some time.

Zoë follows Mal to a spot against the far bulkhead. They sit, and she reclines gratefully for a minute before opening the box she got at the door. It's a ration pack, and includes a bottle of water, two protein bars, a thin silver metallic refugee blanket, and, mysteriously, a small square packet. She tears open that last one first, and pulls out a wet, perfumy bit of paper cloth.

"We're saved, sir," she says, holding the thing up.

Mal gives the wet wipe a look and shakes his head. "We're guests of the Alliance now," he says softly. "Means we got to be clean and smell good."

"Live clean lives," she says. "Think clean thoughts."

She's not surprised that there's no reply to that. It's too close to the new reality awaiting them, a reality she's not eager to face and surely the sarge isn't either. She turns her head to watch him unwrap a protein bar with clumsy fingers. His face is slack with exhaustion; he looks like he has no business being conscious. Zoë figures she must look the same, but, now that they have the chance for it, sleep feels like it's days away. She tilts her head back again and gets what use she can out of the wet bit of paper.

"I take that back," she says a few minutes later, still dragging the cloth across her forehead. She'd swear that she can felt her spine straighten as a heavy weight of grime leaves her face. The sensation makes her think that maybe she ought to see to that protein – could be that hunger is making her lose her head a bit.

She opens her eyes to find Mal watching her.

"You made a clean spot," he says.

She smiles; he hasn't spoken lightly in some time. "Feels like a day at the spa."

"Guess our standards have changed a bit," he says. He sighs and turns away to take another bite of protein, and something in how he stares at the deck while he chews makes Zoë think that she'd best not continue this line of talk. The sarge has used up all the humor he's got in him.

She settles to eating, gnawing away at the protein in as small of bites as she can make herself take, but both bars disappear quicker than she likes. She sips her water and watches as more Browncoats dribble into the room. So very few, maybe a couple hundred. She sure as hell hopes there are more survivors on other ships, because this can't be it. This can't be all that made it through.

The food in her stomach and the growing ache of the festering wound on her arm finally do her in, and she finds her eyes closing on their own. She slides away from the bulkhead and unfolds the silver blanket, but before she can settle down, a man in a crisp, clean uniform steps into the bay. He says that some people need to come with him for questioning, and he reads off a list of names. It's those of high rank, and Mal is one of them.

"Cóngbù yīgè zhōng," the sarge mutters to himself. He sighs, and his eyes meet Zoë's briefly before he wearily climbs to his feet.

It may be just another baffling twist of her tired brain, but it comes to her as she watches him stumble out of the holding tank that she's seen the last of Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds. She may meet the man again, but the sarge is gone.

o-o-o

As easily as Book's understanding of Captain Malcolm Reynolds fit Zoë's account of the sergeant's last day of service to the Independent Army, the Shepherd couldn't reconcile any of it with the man before his eyes now.

Mal stood a few meters outside the shelter on the downhill side, rolling a palm-sized stone in his hand to feel the weight of it. He turned his face to Zoë, mouth curved in a cocky grin. "You throw like a girl," he said.

"That so, Sarge?" Zoë replied. "Let's see how you do."

Mal's eyes narrowed at the challenge in her voice. He turned to look down the slope and find his target, then made a show of anchoring his feet just right before he cocked his arm back and let the stone fly. The two of them stared intently after it, and Book found himself rising a little from the boulder where he sat and craning his neck to follow the rock's flight path himself. The thing arced toward the patch of trees in the valley, a spinning dot of light gray against the shadows, then suddenly pinged sideways off a distant trunk.

Mal didn't go so far as to raise his arms or whoop in triumph, but he cackled and gave Zoë a sidelong look that said: _told you so._

"That's a lucky shot," Zoë said evenly.

Mal's cackle cut off with an offended: "Lucky my ass!"

"Care to go two of three?"

Clearly he did. He studied the hillside for a moment before he laid down the new rules. "Let's make this interesting. See that boulder there? The yellowy one with the flat top? Skip off there, hit the tree just behind it."

Zoë squinted down the hill. "Which tree?"

"One with the big ol' branch going off to the right."

"That one? It's a good twenty meters back. No way you can hit it on the bounce."

Mal had another rock ready. He tossed it in one hand as he replied, "Sure you can, if you throw it just right."

"Well, then. Do show."

"You first."

Zoë folded her arms in front of her. "It's your game, sir."

"Coward."

Zoë's eyes hardened at that, and after taking in and huffing back out a deep breath, she dropped her arms and searched the rubble around her feet until she found a stone that fit her hand. Book had to rise to full standing to follow her throw. It was a noble effort, but…

"That was very nicely done, Zoë," Mal said, his voice dripping with exaggerated encouragement. "Very close. You got the right idea there."

"I believe it's your turn," Zoë replied stiffly.

This time, the captain got overly cocky with making a show of his technique. This attempt wasn't nearly as successful as his last.

"Helps to hit the rock, sir," Zoë said, "if you want to get the bounce."

Mal held up his throwing hand and shook it like it was out of order. "It slipped."

"That's cause you throw like a boy."

Mal glared, but Zoë was winding up already. She let fly, and Mal's shoulders slumped to see the result.

"You cheated. Somehow. That throw's impossible."

Zoë smiled smugly. "Have to throw it just right is all."

Their easy banter finally served to pull Book fully into the present, and he found himself laughing. Right from the gut, a deep rolling laugh that took a load of weight off his bones and pulled his mind completely away from the ruin of Serenity Valley.

Mal pivoted to look at him, and the lack of recognition in his face made Book's laughter falter. The captain turned to Zoë, his eyes questioning.

"Just joined the squadron," she said, and there was no sass in her voice now.

Mal looked at Book once, then back at Zoë. "Well, you gonna introduce us?"

Zoë seemed startled, but went along with it. "Of course. Sarge, this is Shepherd Book."

"Shepherd?" Mal asked, and Book felt himself tense up. But it passed quickly; Mal smiled and stepped under the tarp with his hand extended. "Good to have you, Book. We been without a preacher these past few weeks, ever since Aberdeen. We could use a little service. Though I hope you ain't particular about Sundays; war don't tend to stick to a seven day schedule."

"No, I expect not," Book replied hesitantly as he shook Mal's hand.

"Where'd you ship in from?"

"Well – "

"Just came over from Highgate," Zoë cut in quickly. "Been working with the miners on the flats."

"The war ain't reached there," Mal said, and he gave Book a worried look – worried in a protective way. "You seen action before?"

"I've… seen my share."

"Well, you ain't seen nothing like the 57th. You may think you've seen war, and mayhap you have, but I can guarantee you ain't never had such a good time as you will here." Mal had been looking over the gear as he spoke. He found the vittles box, and while he dug though it, Book took the opportunity to catch Zoë's eye. She shrugged.

"War is hell, Shepherd," Mal continued, "but that don't mean you can't have fun while you're at it."

"Fun?" Book asked. This unburdened version of Malcolm Reynolds was certainly not something he knew, but he couldn't imagine that the man had ever taken joy in killing. "And just how do you manage that?"

"Ask Zoë," Mal said. He set a saucepan on the frame over the fire and dropped a brick of pea-colored protein into it.

Zoë brought a few pieces of wood to the fire, setting them up just so to heighten the flame under the pan, then she took a seat. Her eyes held Book's as she spoke. "Sarge, there's been so many gorramned good times, I forget exactly what you might be referrin' to."

Mal snickered, but he took the time to find a spatula and start breaking apart the protein before he clarified, if this could be called clarity: "Shepherd, you ever been in one of them Alliance tanks?"

"Which do you mean?" Book asked. At Mal's confused look, he added, "There are dozens of models, and – as I hear it – they vary widely according to their purpose."

"Ahh, well. I'm talkin' about the really pángdà ones, the kind that go where they please and blow up anything that gets on their bad side, whether it be a chipmunk or a minor city that won't behave. Got treads taller than a man and room for four inside – two to drive and navigate and target, one for the machine gun turret, and one to run the heavy artillery."

Book nodded. "I think I know what you mean. I've seen them from a distance." He smiled and touched the throat of his coat. "I'm more of a… behind-the-scenes type."

"Your loss," Zoë said. She smiled and rubbed her fingers together, like she was remembering the feel of something in her hands. Then she focused on Book. "As far as rules and laws and taxes go, I'm ready to tear the Alliance down. But when it comes to building machines of war, they know what they're doin'. I suppose I'll never get my hands on something like that again–"

"And you might never have, if you'd had your own way," Mal said. His tone was critical and even a touch bitter, but then his mouth curved in a grin. "Bet you're glad you listened to me now, ain't ya Zoë?"

Zoë sighed, then set out to explain.

o-o-o

Eight years ago, thirty kilometers south of Auchronie, Aberdeen

Once the men and women in the unit have all set to their suppers, Zoë goes to join the sarge with the planning. He's crouched in a small clearing, leaning over a map that he's opened in a red-orange patch of late evening sun. She looks over his shoulder for long minute, trying to see what he's up to.

He doesn't move. Must not be making much progress, she figures, so she offers him a hint.

"South, sarge. We have to go south."

"Zoë, the target is Auchronie. Auchronie's to the north."

"Orders say to meet on the east side of the river. There's too many purplebellies on this side, no room to gather unseen. We got to cross to make the launching point, and the only ford's down south." She hunkers down and taps her finger on the map.

Mal's not impressed. "We do that, we gonna be walkin' the whole gorramn night and more. We won't be helping out much with the attack."

"Ain't got a choice. You know we can't go up the river valley, or we'll get hammered. We won't be able to meet up with the rest of the troops at all, cause while they're storming the city we'll be little shreds of flesh rottin' in the bright mornin' sun."

Mal slides his eyes away from the map to frown at her, but she just smiles.

"I don't know how I function with such a damned cheery soul as my second," he mutters.

"Ain't cheer, it's good sense." She calls his attention back to the map as she points things out. "If we follow the river, go straight up to Auchronie, we got to pass under these bluffs." Her finger outlines a large oblong ridge that borders the west side of the river – hills which rise steeply from the river bank, then fall back more gradually to the west. She taps at a place where the topo lines squeeze together tightly. It's the highest bit of high ground that juts out over the river valley. "Intel says they got artillery sittin' right here on the edge, and infrared trackers and such to pick up motion down below. We wouldn't stand a chance."

Mal huffs, but has no rebuttal, so she goes on.

"Sarge, it won't take long at all to get south to the ford. Then we go roundabout to the east and stay clear of the view from the bluffs. We ought'a get to where the general's setting up the pontoons by lunchtime, afternoon at the latest. Won't miss but half a day of the attack."

"Which might as well be all of it," Mal says glumly. He hunches over the map again. Planning the journey, Zoë hopes. Taking her advice. Following orders and going the safe way.

Except that just isn't likely – she's learned by now that Mal has no talent for thinking in the box. Sure enough, when he finally lowers a finger to the map, it's nowhere near the route Zoë's just outlined. "What about this?" he asks, and he traces out a heavy black line that runs north-south on the west side of the bluffs.

"That would be the road. The Alliance road. That's the very supply line we're hoping to cut off in Auchronie. Although… if we went to the roadside and stuck out a thumb, I'm sure we'd get a lift soon enough. Might not take us where we want, but –"

Mal's glare cuts her off, then he returns to the map. "This here…" His finger draws a short line up the ridge from the southwest. "Looks to be a gully for rain run-off. Steady slope for most of the way, and only turns steep at the top."

Zoë chews her tongue and holds back a quick retort. She takes the time to consider what he's suggesting, because it does pull at her. The thought of walking through the night and half the next day to join a battle that'll be ready for the history books by then… that's not her style. She'd prefer that her guns be of some use to the cause.

But it's her place to be practical. Mal never was trained to be an officer; he might have an adventurous spirit, but he tends to overlook important details.

"Sarge, with all the supplies the troops are carryin', we can't be making em climb like that. We got no gear for it. And it's just before going into battle–"

Mal turns his head and calls to a private standing back near the dining troops. "Warren!"

"Yeah, Sarge?" Warren replies.

"Think you can haul your ass up a few rocks?"

"My ass and at least three others!"

"Thatta boy," Mal replies, and he grins at Zoë.

"Sarge, we don't know about this path up. We could very well get stuck. Won't do no good if the Alliance finds us wanderin' about in the dark, clingin' to the back end of a hill. They'll pick us off, easy as peach pie. And even if we make it, what do we do once we get up there? Sneak under the noses of the canons and carve our initials in the metal? On top of all that, we got orders. Orders are clear – we go south, circle around, gather on the east bank with the General."

She thinks she's got a strong argument, but Mal doesn't budge. "Come on, Zoë," he says. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Sittin' in a corner with my love of bein' court-martialed."

Mal scoffs. "Pessimist."

"Realist," she corrects firmly.

Mal folds the map and rises to his feet. "That's why you don't have enough good times in your life."

"Fun is one thing. Breakin' my neck in the dark is another." Zoë stands up beside him.

The sarge looks hurt. "When have I ever led you astray?"

Zoë opens her mouth – she could point out some examples he might not like, But there's one place he did lead her that was nothing but good. A doorway out of hell is how it's written in her mind, though maybe it's not so simple in the end. A little bit of that hell came along with her and latched onto him, and he's earned a bit of trust for sharing the burden. More than a bit. So she says nothing.

Mal smiles like he can see that she's giving in. To finish off the debate, he draws himself up tall – the man can look noble when he means to. "Zoë," he says in a grand voice, "it's a basic truth my momma taught me: If we don't try, we won't ever fail."

"Yes, sir. And so I think… Actually, sarge, that's exactly what I mean. If we…"

But Mal's already walking away, a grin on his face like he's done quite a feat in out-talking her.

o-o-o

Book had to smile – Zoë was laughing like she just couldn't hold it in, and that was infectious. "I'll spare you the details of all the blunderin' about in the dark, Shepherd," she said, "cause I tell you there was plenty of that. I was ready to knock Mal out with a left hook–" Mal snorted at this, but Zoë ignored him. "–and have the troops carry his rock-climbing pìgu all the way down to the ford and across the way we was supposed to go. But he kept finding twists to the left or right and little holds on the rock and places we could push each other up, and somehow we climbed that hill."

"No _somehow_ about it," Mal said stubbornly. "Wasn't hardly a thing, and we got up there in plenty good shape to do some damage."

"You took the outpost?" Book asked in surprise. Attacking an entrenched army on high ground was one of the hardest tasks for an invading force, one that the textbooks said not ever to attempt, not without some serious firepower and superior numbers.

"Damned right we did," Mal said. "Well, we took just enough of it…."

o-o-o

Mal and Zoë reach the top of the bluff with some time on their hands: the rest of the squadron is stretched out thin navigating the narrow way up. Mal uses the delay to send out scouts, and he's got a plan in place by the time the whole group is gathered in a shallow hollow on the south end of the bluff.

"These Alliance idiots got no idea that they're about to get invaded," the sarge says in a lowered voice. "They think they're beyond all reach up here. We go in quiet and sneaky – ain't no need for a firefight that'll spray lead everywhere. We do this right and we'll pass through quick, take what we want, and they won't know what hit em."

What they want has to do with the artillery that intel's been warning them about. It turns out that nothing's dug in; the guns are mobile units, two massive tanks that sit on the eastern edge of the bluff, braced with heavy steel extenders and their turrets pointed out over the valley below.

There's not much of a watch on them. All eyes – human and electronic – are focused on the river to the east and the road to the west. Most of the Alliance troops are staying in shacks down toward the latter, thinking the road is the main thing to be defended, and the few soldiers manning the hilltop are taken down quietly in the dark of the trees. The tanks are unbuttoned, the crews hardly glancing up through the open lids, so the Browncoats climb the armored sides of the things and slip in the hatches, taking over like they were invited to do it.

They don't dawdle but for one bit of business that the sarge hadn't worked out ahead of time. He asks who can drive a tank, and he's got near every one of the troops jumping up and down, waving their hands in the air. Then he says that he'll personally order Zoë to tan the hide of anyone who so much as scratches one of those lovely vehicles, or overturns it in a ditch on the drive north to Auchronie. That narrows the group of volunteers down to those who actually know how to handle this kind of machinery.

o-o-o

Zoë's face spread into a tooth-filled smile. The sight of her joy, pure and untainted, was a powerful thing given how very uncommon it was. It must be a strong memory indeed, Book thought, to make her light up like that.

"I was one of the two who got to drive," she said.

– – –

"Alleyne! What the – "

Mal is cut off when the tank lurches to the side, its right treads dropping suddenly as Zoë reverses her turn suddenly. She hadn't planned the timing, but she's happy with the coincidence. It's good to make the sarge swallow a few words – he does tend to talk more than his share.

"They still followin'?" she asks.

Mal pulls himself off the floor and scrambles back to the navigator's seat to check the screen. "The other tank's behind," he confirms, his voice raised over the roar of the engine, then he laughs. "Keep on, full speed, let's see if Chen can keep up!"

Zoë cranks the throttle forward, plowing over bushes and small trees as she cuts off curves in the dirt road that winds through the forest. She's barreling along the rough track that leads from the hilltop down to the main road; it's likely that when the tanks came up this way, they went a hell of a lot slower and actually stayed on the narrow way. She won't be taking the time to bother with that.

The screen in front of her shows more info than she can possibly deal with: real time analysis of the landscape via infrared. Obstacles that might impede the tank's progress or make it tilt too much are highlighted in blue, and anything in motion shows up in bright red. Alliance soldiers occasionally skitter in front of her, their arms waving in warning and confusion. At first they step aside and stand with their guns hanging uselessly in their hands, but eventually a few figure out that all is not right and start shooting. A staccato beat shakes the whole tank, resonating in Zoë's chest; the soldier manning the tank's gun turret (his knees just visible in a well that opens over her right shoulder) takes care of the threats.

A sideways bump throws Zoe into her restraints hard enough to bruise her ribs and the delicate bones of her shoulders, but she hardly feels it. She's cackling with the thrill of being unstoppable, and she's just plowed over an Alliance checkpoint. She must be nearing the junction with the main north-south road. Sure enough, she soon finds herself taking harder hits from ahead: Alliance gunners are set up behind a wall of sandbags next to the paved road. She zooms in on the viewer and spots one purplebelly who presents some actual danger. He's armed with the right kind of weapon to put a dent in her ride, but just as he hefts the launcher onto his shoulder, the Browncoat who claimed the fourth spot in the tank fires a heat-seeking missile that solves the problem.

"Hoo-aa! They build these tanks nice!" the young man cries out as his shot hits.

"That they do," comes Mal's reply, then his voice rises. "Tāmā de! Trouble at ten o'clock!"

The gun turret swings into action again as a swarm of soldiers appear from the left. They're coming up the main road, likely from troop barracks or guard shacks located down that way. Zoë sets the tank at an angle that presents her heaviest armor to the attackers and makes sure to leave room for the second tank behind her. Then she parks it and turns to talk to Mal – armed as they are, the youngsters in the gun turrets can handle the rest of the fight themselves.

"The rest clear, sarge?" she asks in an all-out shout that's barely audible over the din. She's referring to the 57th. Everyone but the eight riding in the tanks are hoofing it over the bluff as quick as they can, passing though the dark trees so they can all meet up again on the road north of the bluffs.

Mal's holding a receiver in his ear – their own comm system, not that of the the tank. "Free and clear," he yells back. "Every damned Purplebelly is high-tailin' it towards _us_. Probably feelin' a mite stupid about now!" He laughs open-mouthed, caught up in all-out joy at the success of his plan. It isn't often one catches the Alliance with both their pants and their boxers down around their ankles.

Zoë nods but doesn't try to prolong the conversation. The boom of the guns is explaining the rest of it – the Alliance won't be getting their war toys back.

It isn't five minutes before things quiet down. They get moving again, clearing out before the Alliance can sort themselves out for a better attack. Zoë heads up the road at a slow pace until Mal shouts at her to stop. Browncoat foot soldiers come running out from the woods on her right and climb on the tanks; every one of them finds a spot, like baby scorpions hitching a ride on their mother's back.

They set off again while Mal calculates the time till sunrise and consults the map. They'll reach the city in plenty of time to find a good spot, put out the tanks' extenders, and get ready to use long-distance artillery. They may face a bit of a firefight once the Alliance regroups and catches up with them, since they'll be isolated on the hot side of the river, but it's worth it. They'll provide a safer crossing for the assembled Independents on the eastern bank, and make the troops in Auchronie fight the attack on two fronts.

The sarge might catch hell for breaking orders, but he damned well better get a nod of recognition too. It wouldn't be the first time that the Independent higher-ups had to decide whether to punish or reward Reynolds, but Zoë has no question which side of the matter she's on. Her chest burns with pride to be serving under him.

o-o-o

The telling of past victories continued while they ate. For the first time, Mal took part in this thing that Zoë had started, and the way words played back and forth between the two Browncoats made the whole place feel different to Book. The fire burned brighter and warmer, like it was feeding off their voices, and the thickening rain outside the shelter seemed like nothing but clean, healthy nourishment for the trees in the valley below.

Book took part as much as he could, asking his questions and adding his own booming laughter to the mix. But it wasn't the stories that restored his previously flagging spirit as much as the sight of their faces – for the moment, Mal and Zoë were two soldiers doing their part in a war, and not crushed by the burden of losing it. It was almost easy to forget that Mal was sick until the man began to flag. Zoë kept the game up, telling him not to worry, telling him that she was plenty awake and happy to take first watch, and he gave in easily.

The smile lingered on her face as Mal settled into his bedroll. Book expected a little more talk from her once the captain had fallen asleep, some attempt to keep the cheer alive, but that didn't happen.

As soon as quiet settled in, Zoë grabbed something from her bag – a comm unit, Book saw – and went out into the rain. She sat down so a large rock blocked her from view, but Book could faintly hear her voice.

"Wash," she said. "Wash, you there?"

Book went to the far end of the tarp with the dirty frying pan in hand, splashed water into it and started scraping off bits of burnt-on protein. He'd hoped to get far enough away to allow Zoë privacy to speak to her husband, but a trick of the breeze carried her words to him again.

"Wash, I need a little check-in. I need…"

Her voice was thin and shook with just a bit of something like desperation. It made Book pause and look back over his shoulder. He'd had no idea that Zoë's mind might have been in a different place than her face this whole time.

"I need to talk, honey. Need to hear your voice."

It must be a strange thing for her. Once, this version of Mal had been the only one she knew.

"Wash, what the hell's happening? Where are you?"

And she hadn't seen the captain like this in… eight years. Maybe she'd forgotten what he used to be like. Or maybe she just hadn't expected the change, and it'd caught her off her guard.

"_Serenity_? Anyone?"

A long spell of silence changed the direction of Book's thoughts, and told him that Zoë was figuring out the same thing he was – there was no one on the other end of the call. When finally she gave up and came back into the shelter, she caught Book'e eye once, as if to check that he'd overheard. He gave a short nod and she looked away. There was nothing to be said.

o-o-o

Translations  
cóngbù yīgè zhōng: never an end  
pìgu: butt  
pángdà: enormous  
tāmāde: fuck me blind


	10. Chapter 10

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

_Warning: this goes someplace unpleasant. Might even call it pseudo non-com, though it isn't explicit. _

**

* * *

**

Chapter 10.

Fifteen years ago: House Medrassa, Sihnon

The wisp-thin woman is old. Her age can be seen in the deep lines on her face and the color of her hair: silver-gray broken by a few tasteful hints of what may have been her original blonde. But she lowers herself onto a wing-backed chair across a tea table from Kari with the dignified grace of a much younger woman, settling so lightly that her weight doesn't seem to bow the chair's gold-yellow brocade.

She's holding a sheaf of papers in one hand. Kari recognizes them – her application to the Guild. The pages are filled with all the required personal information and essays, meticulously written out by Kari's own hand over the past year. It's more than a document; it's a work of art. Kari's paid loving attention to every detail of clarity and visual appeal as well as content. Perhaps the claims regarding her education and life experience are more fiction than truth, but that's only what's needed. This opportunity will surely never come again, and she has to be an exceptional candidate on paper as well as in person.

Kari's pretty sure that she's accomplished the former, and is ready to use that as a springboard to the latter. But the aged Companion doesn't even look at Kari's application. She rests the pages across her knees like they're nothing but a bit of half-finished tatting that she might take up if the conversation proves dull. Her light brown eyes – keen eyes that shine with wisdom and insight – are directly focused on Kari. A long, uncomfortable moment passes before the woman says in a firm voice:

"It is our policy never to admit children past their twelfth birthday."

And there it is. Just a half hour into Kari's visit to the Guild House, the culmination of months of careful planning and a morning of nerve-wracking trickery (a tale of errands complicated enough to explain her day-long absence to her parents), the retired Companion's one short sentence has dashed Kari's hopes. She's been twelve for more than half a year, a fact that she has no hope of hiding. Her birth date is clearly printed on the ident card she had to show at the door to this House.

A weight settles into Kari's stomach, but she straightens in her seat, lengthening her spine in an attempt to match the posture of the regal woman who's watching her so very closely. This is no one less than the House Priestess, and the fact that she's chosen to meet with Kari herself must mean something.

Kari lifts her chin high. "I was unable to apply before now," she says calmly.

"Why is that?"

"I was living abroad. When I returned I was very busy."

"Doing what, exactly?"

"Studying. I'm very dedicated to calligraphy and drawing, and right now I'm reading about the economic policies of the Sihnon settlers during the Hegemony era. It's all there, in my application." She nods to the papers in the woman's lap, hoping the conversation will go that way, but the Priestess's eyes don't waver.

"You must indeed be dedicated to your schooling, if you placed it above meeting Guild application guidelines."

This flusters Kari. "Oh! I didn't mean …"

The Priestess doesn't speak, but her raised brow asks the obvious question: _what exactly do you mean? _

"It's just that… missing a half year of Guild training can't be so very bad if I've spent my time in a worthwhile way. Can it?" Kari's voice shrinks in that last small question – she realizes that she must sound like a scared, whiny little girl.

The Priestess hears it and doesn't approve. "That remains to be seen," she says coldly. "But let's move on. Tell me, Karida, why do you want to be a Companion?"

The use of her unabbreviated name catches Kari by surprise. She's never liked it, and broke her parents of the habit years ago. But she certainly won't be correcting the Priestess. She takes a deep breath to compose herself and focus her mind.

This question has to be answered perfectly – the course of her entire life depends on it. She's not unprepared. She's spent countless hours studying the Guild's information pages on the cortex, starting on the Peterson's Firefly with Sylvia, and continuing at the public library near her parent's house. She's read every detail she can find about the Novice Companion's life, every quote from trainees and registered Companions throughout the Core. She's composed this essay on her application, and has another version ready to present aloud. She clears her throat and recites her answer in a strong, professional voice.

"I have always wanted to learn the arts that the Guild teaches: the tea ceremony, music, calligraphy, the arrangement of flowers. I also want to study politics and economics and ways of the Alliance government, so I can understand the verse I live in and be better able to hold my clients' interest. And I wish to be educated about love, about sharing my body with those I choose, so that together we can become more aware of our minds, bodies, and feelings, and achieve the samma sati – "

"You are a Buddhist?" the Priestess interrupts.

Kari falters. She's done some reading about Buddhism because it's widely practiced by those in the Guild, but it's nothing she's been able to actively pursue.

"Well, I…. No, I'm not. Officially. But I've read a lot about it."

The Priestess's face holds something sour and disapproving, and it's hard for Kari not to squirm and stutter a confused apology. She's not nearly done with her speech, but she senses that the Priestess wants to hear nothing more of it. So she sits still, holding her hands tightly folded in her lap to stop herself from plucking nervously at the fabric of her dress.

Finally, the Priestess glances down at the application in her lap. She places a hand over it, then meets Kari's eyes again. "You do a great deal of lying," she says, her casual tone not fitting her words.

"I… I'm not lying," Kari stutters. She feels her cheeks redden.

"Do you feel all that you just said? Do you feel it deep in your heart?"

Kari's aware that her voice rises defensively, but she can't help herself. "I feel… I very much want to be a Companion. I feel that down to the tips of my toes. I swear I do!"

She feels some relief when the Priestess's eyes glint and her mouth stretches, although the expression fades before it can become a full smile. But then, to Kari's horror, the woman tosses the pages of the application onto the tea table, her wrist flicking in a haphazard way as if the paper can scatter to the four winds for all she cares.

"You've written an interesting fable," she says, "and it is just that. A background check was run as soon as you told the greeter why you were here. What we found out has little in common with what's written here and what you've just told me."

She doesn't sound angry, but her words make Kari collapse, slouching forward and staring blindly at her hands. She should have known she'd be found out so quickly. "I'm sorry," she says softly.

"You've hardly been to school. You started this past year, but dropped out."

"I had no choice."

And that was the truth. The changes her parents planned didn't last very long. Her mother quit her job after only a handful of weeks, claiming in dramatic tears that her supervisor was a power hungry tyrant. Kari thinks it more likely that having a boss was simply too stressful for her mother to bear. The social structure of the workplace, the need to compromise and befriend strangers with coarse habits, was beyond her mother's abilities.

No matter the reason, the result was the same: the family couldn't afford to keep the nanny, and Kari had to stay home.

"And yet," the Priestess says, "you're very well spoken, and can write exceptionally well."

Kari looks up hopefully at the unexpected compliments. "I go to the library a lot, and my mother teaches me at home. She's highly educated."

"She's done well with you. Do your parents know you're here?"

Kari sighs in resignation and shakes her head. "They would have stopped me."

"You can't become a Novice without their permission."

"I know. I was just... I was hoping there'd be some way… if you liked me enough…" She stops, feeling incredibly silly that she'd hoped for special treatment.

The Priestess's voice is firm. "Karida, there is a time to tell people what they wish to hear, and there is a time for veracity. With me, you must not ever lie. Do you understand?"

Kari nods.

"So, tell me – and no standard form answer this time, but the truth – why do you want to be a Companion so badly?"

Kari swallows hard. The truth is a dangerous thing; the act she's put together was designed to be as fine as this polished room, but the truth inside her is as plain and ugly as the life she's led. It's something she wishes to escape, not to bring with her. She doesn't want this woman to know. But then, the Priestess probably knows it all already. What can be lost?

"Can I ask you something first?" Kari asks softly, and the Priestess nods. "Why did you come to talk to me? When you knew I was a liar? You could have sent someone else…" She raises her eyes and catches the Priestess smiling at her.

"I've had plenty of falsified applications cross my hands, my dear. Yours was one of the more creative. And here's a thing that much of the world denies aloud though they know it to be true – lies are like anything else. They can serve a purpose. If they are built with good intent and respect for the the greater truth beneath, lies can hold great power. One could say that we in the Guild use lies in this way. It's necessary for a Companion to have talent for it.

"I have seen your lies, Karida. Now I need to see your truth."

Kari sees some sense in that. She's done more than her share of fibbing in the past year, and though she feels she should be ashamed, she's not. Those lies served a purpose. They've gotten her here, and as much as this interview is far outside anything she expected, she's suddenly feeling hopeful. All her work may pay off in the end, if she has the courage to carry this through.

"I saw a Companion once," she says softly. "Years ago. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen."

"There are other, easier ways to be beautiful."

Kari shakes her head – that's not what she means – then continues explaining, her voice cool and calm. "She was beautiful because she was compassionate and sympathetic, and she was real. She was… present. She looked at the people around her, and she saw them. Really _saw_ them, and understood how to… how to reach them."

"Did you talk to her?"

"No."

"And yet you believe this of her?"

"I could tell. She would have talked to me. She would have been kind to me. Even though…" Kari looks down.

"Even though you were poor?"

"Yes. And plain."

"You're anything but plain."

"I know... now. I didn't know then."

"Where did you see this Companion?"

Kari describes it – the mysterious party, the arriving transports, the polo player and the woman with red hair and a green and white silk gown.

"And you think you can be like her?" the woman asks where Kari finishes. "That's why you've come here?"

Kari's answer is firm. "I am like her. I know it. I've always understood people. I didn't know it until I went away from home, and saw what I can do, how I can make them happy and it makes me feel good too. It makes me feel important and special. And maybe that's selfish, but it's the truth. It's just that… "

"What?"

"I wish that I knew I was appreciated. Not like at home. I want to matter, to make a difference. Me, not just the chores I do, but the words I say and the things I can see in people that they don't even see in themselves…." Kari looks away again, unsure of how to finish.

The Priestess doesn't seem to mind Kari's loss for words. In fact, she looks pleased. "That, Karida, is your truth: compassion and the desire to comfort and share joy. That is our truth as well. We may use lies to achieve it – the Companion you saw may have feigned more interest in the sport of polo than she feels, for example, so that she could make Adolfo's evening more enjoyable. Do you see?"

Kari nods – she sees that very well. She learned about that very thing with Sylvia and Pete and Mrs. P, about taking up their interests as her own for the good of them all. And now she fervently wishes she'd written about that in her application, instead of all that lavish and grandiose nonsense she'd come up with.

Suddenly, the Priestess rises to her feet. "I have some business to see to, Karida. I'll send in tea."

Kari can't move for a few moments after the Priestess leaves the room. She's never told anyone as much about herself as she just did, and now she feels numb, oddly absent of both hope and despair. It's truly out of her hands now.

She rises to study the art pieces placed about the space, just to occupy herself, but hardly makes a circuit of the room before the door opens and a woman enters with a tea service. Kari instantly recognizes her, though she's wearing plain beige linen and not green and white silk.

"Aileen?" she asks in disbelief.

The woman smiles as she sets down the tray. "The Priestess thought you might like to talk to me."

"I never… I didn't use your name. How… ?"

Aileen laughs softly. She's much less severe than the Priestess, and when she answers, her tone is teasing. "If Adolfo ever led another red-haired Companion down a red carpet, he'd have much to explain." She holds a hand out. "Come. Have a seat."

Kari feels her face color as she takes the invitation and returns to the settee. Aileen is both plainer and more beautiful than she recalls – plainer because she is here next to Kari in the bright light of the room and the normalcy of everyday clothing, and yet more beautiful for the same reasons. She is human and real and her brilliant smile isn't faded by distance.

"So you want the exciting, glamorous life of a Companion?" Aileen asks, seemingly unfazed by the fact that Kari is completely tongue-tied and very nearly gaping.

Kari's not up to returning any kind of humor, so she just shrugs. It's not excitement and glamor she wants, not exactly, but she's nowhere close to being able to explain.

"You should know that it's not like that," Aileen says. "If you become a Companion, you have to give up many things. For instance, it's very unlikely that you'll have a family of your own."

On that subject Kari doesn't hesitate to reply. "I don't want one."

Aileen smiles, a knowing smile, and Kari steels herself to hear what adults always tell her when she lets it slip that she doesn't want to marry, doesn't want children: _You'll change your mind when you're a grown woman,_ they say. Or: _You'll meet the right man someday, and then you'll understand._ But Aileen says neither of these things. Instead, she reaches out and pats Kari's arm lightly.

"As the oldest of eight," she says, "I imagine you've done all the child rearing you need for a lifetime. Yes, the Priestess told me about you, and the lengths you've gone to to come here. You are nothing if not creative. In fact, the Priestess thinks you could be well suited to this life."

"You mean… ?"

"You will have a trial session – one term only. But if you do well, you'll be invited to stay on a permanent basis."

Kari has to swallow down the flood of hope that threatens to bury her. "What about my parents?"

"The Priestess is contacting them, to invite them here to discuss your future."

"They'll never agree. You don't know what they think of all this."

"Don't worry so much; she can be quite convincing. I imagine she'll offer some aid with your seven siblings, which will come out of your trainee's allowance until you come of age. After that, you will be your own woman, and what you do with your life will be for you and the Guild to decide. That is… if you complete your studies. It won't be easy."

"I wouldn't want to do it if it was easy."

Aileen reaches out and pushes Kari's hair behind her ear. "You are something, Karida."

"No one calls me that," Kari says softly.

Aileen only smiles. "Karida means 'untouched' in Arabic. Did you know that?"

Kari nods. "My mother told me."

"Your mother gave you a lovely name, but she couldn't have known the young woman who would come of the babe she birthed."

"I suppose not."

"Now you have the opportunity to choose something more fitting, if you'd like."

Kari nods wordlessly, and Aileen motions her toward a cortex screen just showing between draped white curtains. She touches it to summon a menu, and after a moment some sort of list is displayed. Kari sits down and looks closer; they're names. Hundreds and hundreds of names, each with their meaning and origin shown.

"We are going to make you into the best woman you can possibly be," Aileen says, standing behind Kari with a hand on her shoulder. "You may choose a new name, if your own is not to your liking. There's no need to decide now, but look the list over to pass the time. There will be business to sort out when your parents arrive."

Kari turns and looks up. A meeting with her parents? She dreads that.

"Fàng xīn, I'll be with you, and I'll explain how very proud they should be. Their little girl is going to be highly respected and very powerful someday. The skills you learn here will enable you to make a real difference in this verse; many Companions become involved in politics or business when they retire from taking clients."

Aileen's words make Kari realize that this is real, this is happening. And then she begins to feel like she glows, just as Mrs. P had said, just as Aileen did on the red carpet years ago. She feels herself shimmering in gold light that comes from nothing but joy. It could be that she's never going back. She's never going to ask for handouts or make dinner from scraps or settle fights between her younger brothers and sisters. She won't be forced to learn to a dull trade, to apprentice to a worker's guild and follow in her father's steps, or go her mother's way and become beholden to a man who doesn't understand her and a flock of children she doesn't know how to care for.

She turns to the screen, eager to take the first step into her new life. By the time Aileen returns a half hour later, Kari has chosen her name.

"_Inara_," Aileen says with a smile. "Arabic for: 'Ray of light, Heaven sent.' Yes, it suits you."

o-o-o

Persephone High Orbit

"A friend of Wash's is a friend of mine!" the curly-haired young man on the screen claimed with magnanimous enthusiasm. "Especially one so ambrosial to the eyes. Inara, you said?"

She smiles. "Yes."

"Well, Inara, you're enough of a friend of Wash's that he told you how to find me, and yet we've never been properly introduced. How is that?" His admiring eyes showed that the question was meant as a compliment.

"Well… it seems that we were generally in a hurry when we needed your help."

The man's eyes narrowed. "That's not it, I'll bet. Wash always keeps the good ones to himself. First Zoë, now… Inara." He turned to the side for a few seconds, his hands busy and eyes elsewhere, as if he was too short of attention span to focus on one screen for more than a half minute. "So, how do you know the wacky pilot and what kind of lies did he tell you about me?"

Inara hesitated – the stories Wash had shared about the presumptuously named Mr. Universe had been entertaining, but not anything she wanted to bring up now. This young man's energy seemed to drive him in odd directions, and she imagined that bringing up Wash's tales of flight school hi-jinks would send him spinning off wildly, sharing his side of things. She had no time for that.

"Wash explained that you're very talented and well-connected," she said, then went on without acknowledging Mr. Universe's look of doubt. "That's why I'm contacting you, because I need some help myself. You see, I flew with Wash on _Serenity_ until just recently, and –"

"On _Serenity_? With Mal?"

"Yes."

"Say no more. If you're on Mal's crew, I'll guess that whatever you're needing involves crime, destruction, and oodles of tasty chaos." He rubbed his hands together joyfully.

"Well… not quite…"

"Fool-hardy errands for crime lords? Dead-end jobs on dried up worlds?"

"No – "

"Then, something on the valiant side of stupid? A heroic rescue? A damsel in distress?"

This was somewhere close to the truth, but the image of Mal as a damsel in distress threw Inara for a moment. "I suppose… it's something like that, but I guess I mean to… Well, you see, Mal's in trouble."

"The fine captain? In trouble? Slap me and call me in shock."

Inara went on, barely hearing him. "And I need to find him. Before others do."

Mr. Universe leaned back in his chair. "A race? Now, that sounds like a chance for entertainment. Nothing like a good dash for the tape to fire the synapses. Who's the competition?"

Inara had heard plenty of tales of Mr. Universe's rebellious nature from Wash, but she wasn't sure the man was stupid enough to take on the whole system-wide governing body as a favor to someone he didn't know. So she felt a twinge of nerves as she admitted, "The Alliance."

His mouth dropped open. "Are you asking me to break the law?"

"Not… actively."

"A real bona fide Companion is asking me to break the law?"

That certainly surprised her, and she found herself staring at the screen, momentarily dumb-founded. "I'm… I'm not…. " The young man grinned knowingly, and she saw that there was no point in denying her identity. "How did you know?"

He smiled and leaned toward her, explaining his cleverness with obvious relish. "I see everything. I connect into everywhere." He eyes wondered to the side, to what must be another screen. "Miss Inara Serra, you made some news a few years back. Something of a scandal. Not enough violence to make the front page, but –"

Inara wanted to hear nothing of that. "I'm sorry, but I really am in a hurry," she said, trying to get him back on track.

"Right – that race thing." He sat back and folded his hands over his stomach, his thumbs twiddling eagerly as he studied her. "Tell me this, and if I'm overstepping my bounds and causing offense, just pretend I'm not. Are you jumping to the captain's aid due to, shall we say, the softer kinds of feelings?" He narrowed his eyes at her, watching her reaction closely. Clearly, this man enjoyed drama.

Inara drew back from the screen. A denial sat on her lips, as well as pert words telling him to mind his own business, but all she said was: "Yes."

The young man's full mouth drew sideways into a dreamy kind of grin. "Ahhh… the warmth of affection and adoration. This I appreciate. You see – I'm recently in love myself."

"Oh?"

"You should see her." His eyes rolled up in a show of bliss. "An angel from the highest peak of Heaven. She's not here now unfortunately – down in the shop. Hydraulic problem with her left elbow."

Inara frowned. "That's… a shame."

He shrugged. "Easily fixed. My point is – at the moment my foolishness for love spurs me on, tells me that I must help the heroic lover of Wash's dear captain. The Alliance you said?"

"Yes."

He leaned forward, his chin resting in both hands and his eyes as wide and eager as toddler at story time. "Tell me _all_ about it."

o-o-o

Muir orbital platform

"That was a big, fat waste of my precious gorramned time," Will said as he pushed the hatch of the ship open, his normal cheer worn down by a long day's frustration.

Ginger couldn't agree. They may not have found any tracks of Reynolds and his ship, but she'd come across something that was far more important to her own dire needs.

This station handled all the traffic that visited Muir, including ships that came and went from the finest hospital in the quadrant – the place Marone had told them to focus their search. She and Will had just spent many hours beating every corner of the place for signs of a Firefly, and found nothing.

But the group they'd questioned a few hours ago had seemed promising in another way. One of a group of men who worked the fueling dock had caught her eye, a thick-waisted fellow with a wiry black beard and sardonic black brows. Certainly not a looker, but it was funny how things like that worked. Maybe there really was something that moved through the air, some chemical that searched out compatible types, but it had found her and set her body to warming.

Whatever it was, while Will'd asked his questions and looked over records on the cortex, Ginger'd been painfully aware of every shift of the stranger's stance and of the growling sound when he cleared his throat. It'd burned right into her. And then the man had ambled over and made some clumsy small talk. Before Will was through, he'd let her know the time his shift ended and the place he went for happy hour, and his wandering eyes had filled her in on the rest of his ideas.

She stood now, one foot inside the small ship and one hand holding the hatch open so she could slip right back out and make her date. "Well then," she said to Will. "I'll be back in a few."

Her partner'd plopped down in the pilot's seat, but when she spoke he spun back toward her. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Needin' some supplies."

"Hardly. We've got plenty to eat."

_Of course he's going to be difficult,_ Ginger thought to herself. She'd have to be creative. "Supplies of a female type," she said. That ought to shut him up. Men hated to hear anything about that.

But Will only gave her a suspicious look, then told her in a _this-is-an-order_ voice to shut the hatch and wait up a minute. There was an urgent message on the cortex. He tapped the console and stared at the screen. The message was in text and had to be short, because after no more than ten seconds his hands started flying over the controls. Rods in the bulkhead behind her clanged – seals in the hatch locking down – and the engines fired up.

"What is it?" she asked. "We're goin' now? But I just need a little while…"

"Yeah, I know how long you'd need. I saw that ape making small talk with you. Sorry, dear, you'll have to have to keep your pants on. We've got new orders."

Ginger stalked over to the console to see for herself. He was making this up, he had to be. But what she read confirmed it:

Agent Cantone,  
An unidentified Firefly was seized on Highgate by a local corporate  
security forces, though no arrests were made. I have reason to believe  
that the crew of this ship was visiting a woman running a medical clinic.  
This is your target. Proceed to Highgate immediately. Colony omega-  
E16 on the northern hemisphere. Indentify the ship, locate the crew,  
and report your findings to me ASAP.  
Trevor Marone

When Ginger looked up, Will was grinning at her. "Guess you'll have to go it alone again," he said. "Although you must getting tired of that by now."

Ginger balled her hands into fists. She couldn't reply, because if she did she might just lose it. She might scream and hit things. She might even pull her gun out and put holes in places she really shouldn't, like Will's head.

This was too much, just too damned much. Ever since that day on the cruiser orbiting Niflheim, the day when Will had told her that he'd canceled her transfer request and that she'd be working this mission with him, she hadn't gotten one break. Not one minute when she could be herself and get away. She'd been trapped on this little ship, or in meetings with Marone and whoever he was charming, folks who didn't see the reality behind him. Her few short encounters with her own kind of people – locals who might provide five minutes of sympathy if she could just have some privacy with them – weren't near enough. She just needed one break, a few words and hard screw so she'd burn herself out and wouldn't have to lose her mind in this little can.

The ship shuddered; they'd left the station. She wouldn't be making her date. No relief for her today.

"How long to Highgate?" she asked in a tightly controlled voice.

Will turned toward her – the course was set, the ship flying itself now, and he could ignore the controls. "Five hours."

That wasn't too bad. She could do that. She could stay in this high tech little tin can for that long without her brain exploding.

"Hey," Will said. "Don't look so busted up. It's not the end of the world."

She turned away from the console, but he stuck a leg out to block her from leaving.

"You'll get other chances," he said, his voice suddenly sympathetic. "To tell the truth, I'm not surprised at what happened with you and that fella. I'm not surprised at what he did, coming on to you."

She folded her arms and glared at the deck. She couldn't take this. She couldn't take whatever it was he was playing at now.

"I mean it – you look all right. Almost fine. The time in the cruiser gym did you good. And I even think this new attitude of yours has made a change for the better – I do believe you're standing up straight, you're got your head up and the tired gray hair pulled back. The mug of yours ain't half bad when it can be seen." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him tilt his head and let his eyes roam. "And that ain't the only thing. You definitely lost some kilos."

"I ain't interested. Get out of my way."

"Course you're interested. Why else were you gonna go ball with some sleazeball in a dark corner of a station? Every lady needs a little sugar to make her feel sweet, and you ain't got a bit a' that lately. It's got to make you feel all dried up and shriveled. That ain't how any woman ought to feel."

She shook her head in disgust. He was definitely playing her – aping her accent, talking at her level. But she wasn't going to be taken in. She met his eye. "A 'woman like me'? Care to explain that in a way that won't make me draw my firearm?"

Will didn't take the threat seriously. He smiled and pushed up out of the pilot's chair. "You won't be needing any weapons. Not with me. We're partners, Ginger. Partners. We ought'a take care of each other."

She stepped back until she hit the bulkhead, and he followed. Thing was, the fire in her veins was still burning, burning so hot that she couldn't separate it from the urge to do this man harm. And, even worse, memories of times they'd had were flying up out of nowhere, fluttering about her like little demons tempting her to sell her soul for a moment's release.

He put a hand on her upper arm, resting his fingers loosely, but she knew he'd grab tight if she tried to slip away. "You can't keep to yourself all the time," he said, "waiting for some dockhand to give you an invite. That's no kinda life."

She turned her head aside as he leaned into her. "This ain't life," she said stiffly. "It's a mission. That's the only thing I'm here for. The mission."

He didn't answer with words, just hands, hands landing on her body and sliding around, and what he did raised the heat even higher, no matter the loathing in her mind. She'd thought she despised him as much as she was able, but a whole new store of hate got loose when he made her react like that. It wasn't fair how his hands knew her body. It wasn't fair how good he smelled – musky and dark and masculine – or how the self-assurance of his touch couldn't be easily dismissed. It especially wasn't fair how he moved, the pliant way his torso bent and swayed as he stretched his arms to extend his reach.

"Will, I'm through with this," she said, bracing her arms against his chest. Her fingers spread on their own, thrilling at the warm, solid muscle under his black cotton shirt. She couldn't move away from him, and he didn't budge.

"You sure?" he asked. Ginger bit her lip to hold back words that wouldn't do any good, but inside her head she chanted them: Damn his chest and the way it felt under her palms. Damn the hard thigh that slid between her legs, and damn the hand that roamed to cup her backside and hold her against him.

She damned herself too, because she knew full well that Will was only doing this to show his upper hand, to keep her in her place, and she was letting him anyway. After all, her place could be here, with this cruel, arrogant, lying, shī of a man, or it could be in the shadows, alone and unimportant, hoping for a wink from a random unkempt stranger to prove that she wasn't invisible to all the verse.

In the end, which was worse? At least with Will, in this moment, she felt _something._

It was like he could read her mind. Just as soon as she thought that, he laughed and pushed her to the deck, then folded her legs up toward her chest and pulled her pants down off her hips. She didn't resist, didn't even move while he opened his pants, didn't fight it but let him go at her, right there in the corridor, with the metal rails biting into her back. Her hands still clutched his chest to hold his body and face away, but her hips pushed up to meet his thrusts, because the bastard worked her body just right. And then she finally let herself swear at him aloud, telling him exactly what she thought of him and of this thing they were doing. His reply was to laugh darkly and shift a bit, shift just right so he got her to her edge and past, then he shoved her arms out of his way and crushed her beneath him, squeezing the air from her lungs as he finished up for himself.

"It's mighty fine to be workin' with you again," he said before she'd even started catching her breath. "The way you were acting for a while there – you had me thinking you didn't like me anymore. That hurt my feelings."

He rolled away and fastened his fly, leaving her lying cold and empty on the deck. Ginger pulled her pants up enough to cover herself, not wanting to be naked in front of him, but she didn't get up and didn't answer. The only words she had now were for herself.

He stepped over her and left her alone in the small cockpit, still laying on the floor with her arms limp beside her, and she had to ask again: which way was worse?

o-o-o

Translations  
Fāng xīn: be at ease  
shī: shit


	11. Chapter 11

**Back Stories Book II**

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_

* * *

_

Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1.

_WARNING: This one is dark. Dark dark dark I tell you. Bear with me, it's the last of the real heavies,  
and by the end of __next week (chapter 14) we'll be moving on with the plottiness. _

* * *

**Chapter 11.**

Highgate's second moon

Zoë pulled her flask out and took a long drink. She'd refilled the thing from a larger bottle she'd stowed with the least palatable packages of protein powder, not that she'd planned on drinking her way through her stay on this moon, but at the moment she had need of it.

Book sat across the fire, quietly whittling a bit of wood. It didn't seem to be anything he had a talent for; nothing recognizable came of it. But Zoë understood – it busied his hands and his eyes and very likely his mind, just like the liquor kept her from tying herself in knots of worry.

_Serenity_ still wasn't answering waves. She kept trying, maybe once every half hour, but all she got back was formless crackling static. Images flashed behind her eyes: her husband lying dead on some empty flat of Highgate, Mal's ship in a heap of wreckage, this little camping trip as an intense weightloss experience…

She took another drink.

She'd passed a bit of time going through the supplies, and it wasn't good. Water and firewood were fine, what with the rain and the forest down the hill. The more accessible wood had been gathered by now so that it was taking longer walks and harder ax-work to replenish the pile, but it could be done. So even though the moon's slow day had begun to darken toward evening and the wind had taken on a bitter edge, it'd be the food shortage that got them before the cold. They only had enough for two days of regular meals.

She drew in a deep breath. It'd been a long time since she had to think in these terms, had to focus real tight on the details so the inescapable truth of her situation wouldn't become overwhelming. Think about meals, think about warmth. Don't think about Wash and the others.

"Zoë."

The Shepherd spoke her name quietly but with urgency. She looked to him and he tilted his head at the space behind her, toward the spot where the captain was sleeping. She followed his nod, and what she saw made her drop her flask and forget her worries.

Mal was standing just at the edge of the tent, by the woodpile. His hair and clothes were crumbled like he'd climbed out of his bedroll without bothering to straighten himself up, and he seemed unsteady, wavering a bit and turning his head side to side as if he was lost. She could see in his face that indeed he was struggling, his eyes crinkled in confusion and his mouth twisted in bouts of alternating fear and humor. All of which was extremely not good, considering that the fingers of his right hand were loosely gripping the haft of the wood-splitting ax.

"Hoi there, Reynolds," she said as she climbed to her feet and took a cautious step toward him. "You got plans with that thing?"

His eyes found her but didn't quite focus – he heard, knew she was speaking to him, but didn't seem to process her words. "How can anyone… how can they do that?" he said in a thick stutter. "How can they…?"

She knew his meaning, not from his questions but from the horror that took over his face as he asked them. This was what she'd feared; this is what they'd both feared, back on the day when Mal had gotten his scan at the hospital on Londinium, the one day when he'd known what was happening to him and had made the choice to leave the ship.

"It ain't something to be explained," she told him. "It's to be left behind. Now, how bout you put that ax down?"

He shook his head. "Gotta explain," he said distantly. "Gotta make sense, to make it go away. Lăo tiān yĕ, it won't go away…."

She looked over to Book, saw his confusion. The last the Shepherd'd seen, Mal had been playful and full of stories of victory in warfare. Book had no reason to expect this, but Zoë did. She hadn't been sure, and neither had Mal, but they'd no choice but to prepare for it. She just hadn't thought it would come so soon.

"Get Simon's med bag," she told Book sternly. "Get it now." To her relief, he nodded and got moving without another question.

"Zoë, you seein' it?" Mal asked. For a moment, he looked as forlorn as a little boy in need of comfort. He raised his arm, the one holding the ax, and the sharp end of the thing passed close to his face as he wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. Zoë didn't like that, didn't like the heavy steel blade inches from his eyes and the tender skin of his face. She'd seen what folks in this frame of mind could do to themselves.

She surely didn't want to set him off, but had to take the chance of moving two steps closer, close enough to reach him. Mal dropped his hand and looked at her, his breath suddenly coming in short pants, but pulled himself away from her.

"It's over," she told him. "And it ain't stronger than you."

His lean made him take a step back. "How come I'm still seein' it?"

She glanced aside quickly; Book had gotten the med bag and was kneeling over it, waiting for instructions. She said a second's thanks to the powers that be for putting a man of action inside this preacher. "Double dose of the usual, Shepherd, and any sedatives we got left."

He nodded and set about filling a syringe.

"Nobody does that," Mal said, his voice heavy with denial and horror. "A person ain't supposed to come apart like that. Ain't supposed to be split open… " He wiped at his face again, his movements quicker this time, the blade touching his cheek but not breaking skin. "God in Heaven, I just can't stop seein' it."

"Don't mean it's a part a' you. Don't mean it wins out."

But he wasn't listening. He looked down at the ax, then shifted it, letting the handle swing in front of his legs and up till his left hand caught the bottom end and he had the haft in both hands. He raised it in front of his belly, and his eyes fastened on the blade, intensely focused.

"Shepherd… ?" Zoë said.

"Almost," Book replied.

Mal's hands tightened on the worn wooden handle of the ax, his knuckles whitening. His eyes lifted to Zoë, and what she saw there was terrifying: a desparate need, a strong will to act though the will didn't belong to this man and the act would be far outside his own bounds of reason. This was a different kind of crazy then the one he'd been fighting for weeks; a much, much worse one.

"Ain't waitin', Shepherd!" she called out, then she dove at Mal.

As soon as she moved, the captain's face turned wild with rage, his teeth bared as he swung the ax back in an arc that might have ended with the blade embedded in her skull if she'd stayed still to wait for it. But Mal wasn't doing this violence because he chose to, and he didn't even try to block her attack. She caught him about the chest and they both fell onto the wood pile, him taking the brunt of the impact on his back, and the ax clattered on the stones behind them.

Mal was stunned and winded, maybe enough to come to his senses, but Zoë took no chance. She used her momentary advantage to shove him off the wood and onto the rocks, seeing to it that he landed face down, then braced herself across his back and used her forearm on his neck to hold him still. He swore and pushed against the ground, trying to rise, but wasn't putting all of himself into it. This wasn't a fight he wanted to win, not in his heart. The madness didn't have all of him.

"Now!" she called out, but Book was there already, plunging the needle into Mal's shoulder. He'd mixed it strong, and the captain quickly went limp.

Zoë pushed back and sat on the scattered wood, catching her breath.

"You care to maybe explain that?" Book asked into the sudden quiet, his wide open eyes flicking between her and the captain.

She surely didn't, but she knew she would. She knew she had no choice in the matter.

"Let's see to him first," she said.

Mal'd gotten a bit of a cut and bump where he'd hit his forehead on the rocks, and it took a few minutes to get him bandaged and back into his bedroll. Then they returned to the fire, but this time Zoë sat where she'd be looking directly at Mal; he wouldn't be surprising her again tonight.

She clenched her empty hands together, wishing for something to do with them. She couldn't let herself touch the flask again – as many meds as Mal had in him now, he wasn't likely to rise for some time, but she still couldn't allow herself the release of alcohol. She looked toward Book's discarded whittling – a bad idea for the same reason; she didn't care to hold any kind of blade in her hands. The madness that had touched the captain might come for her as well.

"Wasn't expecting it yet," she said, her voice unsteady and still breathless. "Honestly, I wasn't sure it'd happen at all. He was the solid one before. I was the one… But with how he is these days, with the bein' sick, it was best to be safe. He thought it best…" She realized she was muttering like a madwoman, and rocking a bit. She dug the thumb of her left hand into her right palm, trying to wear down a growing itch. It was just the adrenaline, she reasoned, the coming down from the unexpected danger.

"You _knew_ this might happen?" Book asked.

"I did. We did." And she was going to explain, but she'd have to come at it indirect. She needed to talk herself calm before she told the heart of the matter.

"Shepherd, did you know it was me got Mal his rank?"

Book blinked a moment's surprise at her change of subject, but went along where she led. "No. I did wonder how it happened, him being a volunteer and you being career."

"Yeah, he shouldn't have even been with our group, but things were working odd the month he joined. Couldn't move newbies around like we'd a wanted. Made it awkward for him, being in with career soldiers.

"Was even weirder that, only a year a half later, he got the rank of Sergeant. No one's fault but mine. And it wasn't easy; took some doin'." She had to laugh, a dry, rasping sound. "Mal wasn't a favorite with the higher ups, and he pissed off the colonel something fierce that day. Lucky for Mal, I had connections. Me and the colonel – went way back. Him and my dad did their trainin' together."

It was working; her voice was steadying and the rush of blood in her ears was slowly quieting. She deliberately unclenched her hands and made her shoulders relax.

"Still, I had to be a mite pushy to work things out," she went on. "See, it was a bit of an unusual situation."

She took in another deep breath and released it, letting go of the tension that threatened to take her again. Unusual situation? That was putting it lightly.

– – –

Nine and a half years ago: Independent base, Deadwood

"You threatenin' me?" Colonel Fuad asks, a not-subtle warning in his eyes.

"That I am," Zoë replies calmly, though nothing about her day has been calm. In fact, the events of the past few hours are trying their best to take over her ability to stand up straight and talk sense.

So she doesn't let herself think about it. Maybe later, when she's alone in a place dark enough to make her feel hidden, she'll give in to it and see how it plays out, see if she can muddle through, maybe tie it all up and pack it away somewhere out of her own sight. But now is not the time.

The colonel's glare darkens. "And what the hell makes you think you won't end in the brig for saying what you just did?"

Zoë doesn't hesitate. "If you throw me and Reynolds in the brig, you'll have a whole bunch of soldiers in here saying the same thing I am. And you throw them in the brig, there'll be more. Could be that, eventually, you won't have many troops left out there to fight for you."

The colonel leans back in his chair, folds his hands in front of him, and glowers. "That's insane."

"Sir, folks like Reynolds."

When Colonel Fuad finally replies, his voice is even, but she knows that he's close to being really peeved. Not matter that she's very nearly a niece to him; it isn't good to have this man get really peeved. He's earned his rank in the coalition of Independent armies for good reason. He knows how to use his power and get his own way.

"You've been a fine soldier, Zoë," he says, using her given name as he's been wont to do ever since she can recall. "With Sergeant Ross gone, you're due to move up. Don't blow it over this. I won't take mutiny in my ranks – not even from you."

"It ain't mutiny, sir. It's the thing that's right. If Private Reynolds dies, I expect him sent home with a Medal of Honor and I'll take over for Sergeant Ross, if you still ask it. But if Reynolds lives, I want him gettin' the sergeant stripes to go along with that medal."

Fuad leans forward, his face reddening. There's no first name used now. "You're way off, Corporal! I won't put some damned rancher volunteer who lacks the sense to shut his mouth and do as he's told in charge of my troops. He's got no training, no idea of how to handle a battle – "

"Beggin' you pardon, sir, but he does. And he's got something else. The troops believe in him. They'll follow him. To be truthful, they were lookin' to him already, more than to me or Sergeant Ross. And now he's taken a risk, gone against common sense and strict orders to save… to save lives. And he's near dead from it. You can't punish him for being a gorramn hero."

Colonel Fuad pushes himself to his feet and leans over his desk, and a few bits of spittle fly past his lips as he speaks harshly at her. "Corporal Zoë Alleyne, I take a lot from you because your father was a good man, but this is where I draw the line! You will not criticize my decisions! I couldn't send anyone after you, not with the situation I have here. And I had no idea what the hell that ship was. I didn't know what weaponry they had, or how they'd fight. It could have been some ruse by the Alliance, tricking me into sending my forces up and leaving this garrison unguarded. I had no choice but to let you go!"

Zoë blinks for a second as she realizes his meaning, then she drops her head and shuffles back a step. She hadn't really thought about it, not from his point of view. Fuad's known her since she was a little girl, and today he's had to make a decision in the heat of the moment. It's the only choice he could have made, but still it's cost him some pain.

"Of course you had to, sir," she says, her voice softer now and showing the respect she'd been short on before. "I didn't mean to say that you should have done different."

He sits back down, but still eyes her doubtfully.

"I know you would have sent someone sooner if you could," she continues. "Reynolds might have known that too. He did it the only way it could have been done – one soldier, a single small transport, and he got out on our trail as quick as could be done. Hell, he probably didn't even look like a threat to… those that had us. If there'd a' been more, a bigger ship, mayhap they'd of fought harder and no one would'a gotten out."

She starts to shrug, then stops at the fresh burn from the wounds on her back. The medics'd given her a few local painkillers when they'd stitched her up, but it's not enough. She has to steel herself against the things that come with the pain, shove the memories aside so she can focus.

"I'm telling you sir," she says, "Reynolds got me out of a bad place. I can't stand by and see him punished. I won't."

She stands still, but slumps as the pain stings anew, seeming to flare up just because she can't stop herself from remembering. Can't help thinking on what would have happened if Reynolds hadn't shown up when he did. But her argument is done and now it's up to the colonel to decide where to go, how to act on what little he knows. She hopes it's enough.

Fuad doesn't fully understand what happened on that ship. She hasn't shared the details of it with anyone and doesn't mean to. That few minutes of her life doesn't need to be gone over again; she prays that it'll fade away and stay gone. It seems possible to happen that way. The Alliance has claimed that the soldiers they lost were killed in an accident, and they're denying the reports that a third party was involved.

"Hell, Zoë," Fuad finally says. "Sit down."

She does, lowering herself painfully into a hard wooden chair.

"I meant what I said," he grumbles. "That boy doesn't know a thing about fighting."

"He ain't as bad as you think. Besides, I know a lot, and I'm in his unit, and I don't mean that to ever change."

"_His_ unit?" the colonel asks pointedly, but there's a glint of humor in his eyes. "He's got the rank already, does he?"

"I think he does," Zoë replies, her voice soft but dead serious.

Fuad exhales in a rush, then gives in. "Yeah, he does. Might even be a good thing to have someone who thinks different, ain't tied up with all the same training everyone's got. But he is a wild one. For a rancher boy who goes to service every chance he gets, he does act up."

"He… has his own approach, but it ain't all bad." Zoë can't stop herself from adding, "Way I hear it, that's what we're fightin' to keep – the right to do things our own way."

"Damn, Zoë, who's got you spouting that?" Fuad asks, and she arches a brow at him. He clucks. "Of course. The new sergeant. But it's not a done deal – he's still gotta pull though. Since you know so much about doing a colonel's job, you probably know medicine too. Why don't you get down to the infirmary, make sure those medics are doing their thing right?"

"Yes, sir," she says, and she stands up stiffly to salute. She walks to the door, but stops there to look back.

"Colonel?"

"Yeah, Corporal?"

"Thank you. It means a lot."

He just nods and waves her away with one hand, then shuffles through papers on his desk like he's in a hurry to get on with more important matters.

She makes her way to the med center, her thoughts held stiff and quiet and tightly focused on the route her feet take, and she finds Reynolds groggy but awake. He's laying on a low cot behind a privacy curtain, a tangle of lines running to and from his body and a thick blanket over the top of him. He isn't moving much; the extent of his hurts sees to that. But his face breaks into a dopey smile when he sees her.

"Hey, Corporal," he says. "You come to arrest me?"

She pulls a folding chair across the room and carefully lowers herself in to it, then leans forward on her elbows and looks down at him.

"How you feelin', Private?" she asks.

"Oh, I guess I been better," he admits. His eyes are heavy with whatever painkillers he has in him, and his voice is scratchy. Zoë picks up the bottle next to the bed to offer him a sip through the straw.

"You're lucky you're breathin' still," she tells him. "Should be dead after what you pulled."

He finishes his sip, managing to drink without loosing his grin. "Momma always said I have an angel lookin' over me."

"Sounds like a smart woman."

"Yep." He takes another drink, then rests his head back on the pillow. He looks at her hard, like he's trying to will himself out of his haze, and his face takes on a bit of something serious. "Seems the angel had a little help this time round. Last I recall, we were just getting out, and then…"

"Bit of parting surprise, knocked you flat. I got us into the Black, the colonel's men picked us up there. After a while."

"Anyone else make it? Harris?"

"Just you and me."

"Oh." He looks away for a bit, then his eyes flick back to her face. He's nowhere close to grinning now. "You okay?" he asks. "You were… not lookin' too good."

"Just some cuts and such," she answers stolidly, adding to herself: _Don't think about it. Don't even start._ "Nothin' too bad. I'll be fine."

"That's good."

He closes his eyes and lies still, breathing deeply, and Zoë thinks that maybe the drugs have taken over. She can feel her own weariness creeping up and considers leaving the news of his rank change for later, but can't make herself move. Once she leaves here, all she'll have is empty hours alone in her bunk, waiting to see what kind of nightmares find her. She's got no need to hurry toward that.

Reynolds isn't asleep. He speaks up after a moment. "So… when am I goin' to the brig?"

She can't help but smile a little. "Not anytime soon, less you take it in your head to do somethin' stupid again."

He opens his eyes, looking more awake than she expects. "Not anytime soon?" he asks. "Fuad gonna skip the demotion and throw me out?"

"Actually, I just came from a talk with him."

He smiles faintly. "That's why my ears were burnin'. You two were talkin' bout me."

"Your name came up."

Reynolds has never been the serious kind, and he has a way of giving into drugs like there's an even more boyish, carefree side of himself that wants to get loose. "What's it gonna be?" he asks with a wider smile. "Lashes? Plank-walkin'? Time in the stocks? Three rounds in a boxin' ring with you?"

"We got no planks or stocks, and any lashes or ass-whoopin's are like to finish you off."

"So?" He turns his head toward her, and through whatever chemicals have ahold of him, a hint of worry shows through. However the boy might talk, the man in there doesn't want to leave this war. The man believes.

"Well, Reynolds," she tells him, "this 'private' thing has to go."

He frowns thoughtfully. "Ain't a rank lower than private."

"Which is why you're a sergeant now."

He stares at her for a moment, his expression frozen. "I'm hearin' things," he finally says.

"Sergeant Reynolds. Best get used to it."

He holds her eye for a bit, then looks away with a grunt: _hunh_, sounding like _ain't that something?_

"Guess I better write my momma," he says.

"She'll be proud, long as you don't tell her how you earned it."

"Yeah, she wouldn't go so light as the colonel." He thinks a bit more, than looks at Zoë again. "So I'm the new sergeant, huh?"

"Didn't I cover that?"

"Just makin' sure."

Zoë sighs. "Long as you don't kick in the next day or two, you're the new sergeant."

"Don't think I'm keen on kickin'." He gives her a sharp look. "Corporal Alleyne – if I'm a sergeant, then I reckon I can call you Zoë if I want."

She has to think about it; she may not have considered about all the details before she'd gone to talk to the colonel. "I suppose I'll let you do that," she eventually says.

"And… " His eyes narrow. "I can give you orders."

She feels her mouth tighten. She certainly should have thought this out more carefully. "I reckon that's so," she admits reluctantly.

"Here's my first order, Zoë. You go get yourself some sleep. You look like hell."

She smiles. Private or sergeant, he's the same person. Cheeky and smart-ass, but somehow bang-on with seeing how things are. But she doesn't get up.

He's still staring at her. "You disobeyin' orders?" he asks, like he's planning to jump up off that cot and give her a licking over it. As if he can do that, even when he's not half dead.

"No," she says, trying to sound casual. "I'm just movin' slow."

"Why's that?"

She looks down. _Don't wanna be alone to think about it,_ she answers in her head. _Don't wanna go back there._ But she does anyway, goes right into the horrible place like she never left. It makes her suck in a heavy breath that catches when her lungs fill enough to pull the broken skin on her back. She swallows hard against the burn, though that's not the worst part. Physical pain fades after a time, but the swell of other feelings doesn't. It brings an itch to her palms, and her hands clench around it. It's like these hands belong to someone else, someone who needs to grab anything solid, anything hard or sharp. Anything that can hit, tear, cut, because maybe rage is the only thing that can cut though horror replaying in her mind…

"I gotta ask you somethin'," she says, amazed at how calm she's kept her voice.

"Go on."

She doesn't ask her question right away, doesn't know if she can bring herself to talk about it. She might lose herself, and she's beginning to sense that she can't let that happen. It won't be any regular tantrum or post-battle teary release of nerves and fear and adrenaline. If she lets go, it'll be the storm of the century breaking on a village of grass huts; death and destruction are sure to follow.

She hears a rustling of the sheets, and looks up to see a hand on the edge of the cot, palm open toward her. She glances up the bed and sees a shadow on Reynolds' face, a painful understanding in his eyes. He hadn't been on that ship near as long as she had, but he'd been there. He knew.

She hesitates only a second before she accepts the offer. The warm grasp of his hand quiets the itching need to do violence with her own.

"I take it you saw what was happenin' up there?" she asks, keeping her eyes focused on their joined hands.

His voice is deep with his own pain. "I saw enough."

They sit like that for a while. The sounds of the infirmary's main room are distant, and Zoë gets the feeling that she's still out there in the Black, adrift in a void, hoping she's made her escape for good, hoping that those monsters won't be coming back for a second chance at her. But this time she knows for certain that she isn't alone.

After a time, Reynolds lets go of her hand and starts shifting, and she hears his breath hiss when the movement pains him.

"What the hell are you doin'?" she asks, startled into speaking sharp. He flashes her a look, so she adds, with a little sauce, "Sir."

He grins. "I gave you an order and you haven't followed it. That's 0 for 1. But, given as it's new to you, I'll let it slide. Even help you out a bit."

She realizes that he's inched over to the far side of the bed. There's just enough room on the cot for her to squeeze in next to him.

She shakes her head. "Reynolds – Sarge – I ain't after any kind of… anything like that."

His eyes fix on hers, and she sees how deep the shadow in them goes. "You think you're the only one feelin' it?" he asks, his voice suddenly tight with the same kind of thickness that's been trying to burst out of her own chest.

She nods her understanding and climbs onto the bed, laying on top of the blanket that covers him, and lays back all stiff and awkward, her arms over her stomach but her hip and shoulder pressed against his. The sounds of the medics doing their chores off beyond the curtains seem to fade even more, moving into the distance until all she hears is the low, deep rush of air in her lungs and the shallow, labored breaths of the man beside her.

"What the hell were they?" he asks into the dim light.

"Reavers."

She hears a soft exhale in reply, then even softer words: "Didn't think they were real."

"I knew, but never saw em before. Didn't think they could be as bad as that."

Mal doesn't reply, and Zoë lays still a long time. She sees it all happening again in her head: mouths contorted in screams as skin peels back beneath shredded Alliance uniforms. She hears grunts of agonized pleasure from the creatures who hand out torment like it's the sole purpose of their existence. She feels the weight of them on top of her, the blades and nails and teeth slicing into her, the slime of their bodies and the stench of their breath, like rotten meat. And she feels a ghost of the panicked desperation in her chest and stomach like too much coffee and not enough sleep and a pile of fear so deep and heavy it's out to smother her, and she needs to get away, to make it stop, to do anything to bury the horror, no matter what the cost to herself or anyone else. Her own words echo in her mind:

_Shoot me, Harris! You shoot me dead right now! _

She clenches her hands into fists again, feeling her control slip. But cutting through the memory, the need to do something to escape this _thing_ that has a grip on her, is the warmth of the man beside her. He has some of the same pictures in his head, the same feelings making his breath came uneven and shaky. The solid press of his body against hers is reassuring; it makes her certain of where she is.

She's not up there anymore. She got away.

– – –

Zoë didn't even try to explain the feeling to Book; she just listed the facts of Mal's promotion, cold and hard and simple, without too much mention of the event that led to it.

"You actually gave Mal the rank you could have had?" Book asked. "Even though you'd been serving all your life and he'd just joined?"

Zoë nodded. "He was gonna be better at it."

"And a colonel let you – a corporal – demand it?"

"Independent army ain't like the Alliance," she said. "We set some value on folks thinking for themselves, no matter what titles they got comin' before their name."

He nodded and looked aside thoughtfully. The rain outside the tent was falling as heavy as she'd seen it. A solid gray curtain of wet closed everything out, trapping her in this place with the Shepherd. And with Mal.

They'd decided together, the captain and her, to get off the ship. Not so many days ago, they'd kicked Simon out of the infirmary so they could talk in private, and without ever spelling it out in plain words, they'd come to an understanding: it was best for the crew that the captain leave his ship. It was best for him to be in an empty place, far from weapons lockers and engine systems and a galley and a infirmary where plenty of sharp things were to be found.

At the time, she hadn't worried so much about how she'd deal with this her own self. She'd beaten it once, and she could beat it again. The one thing she couldn't do was be left to carry it alone. This memory was being lost in Mal's head; even now as he slept it was slipping away, leaving her with the full weight of it. She couldn't allow that.

She took in a deep breath, then got started in earnest.

"We were fightin' out on Deadwood," she said, trusting the Shepherd to know she was stepping further back in time. "We'd been there some months already, tryin' to keep the place clear. You know how remote it is – out that far, it was solidly Independent. After a few little squabbles the Feds must'a decided they needed a permanent base there, to change the tide of the sector or somesuch.

"They got a foothold pretty easy. We weren't set up for heavy fighting then, and they only took a small spot. It led to an uneasy quiet, a peace while both sides stocked up for the real fight.

"The day Mal was made a sergeant, the Alliance had a few ships come in, unloading gear to their new base. Sergeant Ross – he was the Sarge before Mal – he gathered up a little group to do recon. Ross and I went with two privates, Harris and Connor, to help out. One to pilot, one to run the scanner and comm system.

"We made a few passes over the Alliance camp. Weren't nothing risky about it; they didn't have anti-air stuff set up yet. But then we saw another ship coming in. Somethin' big, comin' along nearly the same trajectory that the Alliance transports were using to approach the site. We wanted to see what it was, but moved aside a little so we wouldn't start nothing.

"Turns out, we didn't move far enough. We got a glimpse of the incoming ship, just enough to figure that it wasn't like anything a sane person would fly. No containment, and the outside of it torn and mangled like it'd gotten chewed up and spit out. And then, fore we could figure what was going on, we found ourselves gettin' tugged along sideways – gorramn thing got us with a grappelin' hook and pulled us along behind, reeling us in as it flew.

"It also got one of them Alliance ships that were sittin' on the ground, people still walkin' in and out of it. I could see the thing tumblin' along behind us on another line, purplebellies flyin' out the open hatches."

She looked up at Shepherd Book, needing the sight of him to remind her of where she was. It wasn't an easy story to go back over. She never had told it aloud, not even to Wash.

"We got drawn into what might'a been a cargo bay, back when it'd been a ship that carried cargo. The inside of it had been torn to bits worse than the outside and… well, you seen what they do, Shepherd. You can imagine the things they used to decorate. Some of them 'wall-hangings' were still moving. Still alive." _Barely. _

"The Reavers hacked at our scout ship for a while, but once the Alliance transport got pulled into the bay and the doors closed out the wind, they went for the easy prey.

"You see – we were lucky, me and Sergeant Ross and the two privates. We'd been flying when we were caught with the grapple, had the engines and artificial grav on, the ship sealed up, and some time to lock down tight and hold on. The poor bastards on that Alliance ship weren't so well off. Their hatches'd been open when they were snagged.

"The ones that fell out on the way up had it easy, the ones still in there… they got dragged into the bay. The scout ship I was on had a lot of windows… and... and that's when I learned how the Reavers got their name."

She glanced toward Mal, wishing he'd kept his sane on so she could let herself keep up with the flask. Now was truly the time for something, anything, to soften the edges.

She shook her head. "If I knew then what I know now, I might'a kept our ship sealed up and sat tight until the air ran out. But we didn't understand. We just knew those Alliance soldiers were gettin' an end worse than any human being deserves. We grabbed up what weapons we had and went out there."

Now she looked up at Book, at his dark eyes glowing in the firelight against the backdrop of rainy gloom.

"They ain't human, Shepherd. I don't care what the stories say, there ain't no way human beings could be how them Reavers were. The things they were doin'… the way they came runnin' at us like they didn't care a thing bout bein' shot – and not a one of them with guns, like they didn't give a damn about living or dying, just wanted to act out their rage. They kept clawin' their way toward us, even after they were full a'bullets and should'a given themselves up for dead.

"We fought till the ammo got low, hopin' we'd see the end of them sometime, but it took a lot of hits to take each one out. Most of the Alliance folks were dead, hit by our fire or torn to bits by the Reavers. Private Connor went down, and then the Sergeant Ross got pulled down too, when he tried to help. Those things were crawlin' all over him takin' bites and… and trying to… and so I trained a gun on him to stop his screamin'."

_Keep going,_ she told herself. _Tell the tale till it's done, don't you dare stop and think about it. _

"We were backed toward a corner, me and Private Harris. Decent soldier; kept his cool, kept the fight goin'. I was on my final clip, and I was savin' the last of it to end us when the other bullets ran out." She managed a shrug. "Coup de grace ain't usually my thing, but given what those things were doin' to the others …"

Book nodded his understanding, and she went on.

"Didn't matter – I never got a chance to use the ammo. The Reavers were throwing stuff at us by then, bits of scrap metal and whatever else was in that hellhole, and I took a hit in the head. Didn't knock me out, but got me down, and I dropped my gun. Harris kept to his feet and backed off, but those things were all over me in a second."

She had to stop. She could still feel it, could feel every detail of smell and sound and pain… But, somehow, the clearest thing to her now was the expression on Harris's face. He'd stared down at her the way she'd just been looking at Sergeant Ross and at those poor purplebellys: with horror, pity, and disgust. It was like she wasn't human anymore. It was like she was already dead, a thing instead of a living person.

"I told Harris to shoot me," she said, her voice cool and steady as she could make it. "Those things were ripping at my clothes and cutting at my skin. Biting. Putting their… I ordered Harris to shoot me dead." She stopped again, trying to think of how to explain what she'd felt at that moment. It couldn't be done. "It was bad," was all she could say, then she was quiet for a spell. What she'd seen on that ship would never be erased from her mind's eye. Only when she was with Wash did it fade away enough that she could, for a time, completely forget.

"You might guess that Harris never did shoot me. Never had a chance, cause just then the damnedest thing happened.

"The airlock door opened up, and instead of the winds of atmo or the vacuum of space, what came in was a blaze a' gunfire, and those demons on my back went flyin'." She actually smiled at the memory: Malcolm Reynolds, howling with the joy of battle as he walked into that hell with a big-ass rapid-fire gun in his hands, a minor arsenal of weapons and ammo strapped over the rest of him.

The words came easier now.

"Harris got to me and dragged me toward the airlock Mal'd come through. Once Mal figured out where we were, he threw a few grenades. Just like that, we had a path to get us out."

Her voice cracked on the last word – just a little, but enough to be heard – and she had to pause and clear an ache of gratitude and relief from her throat.

"The three of us piled into the boat Mal had stuck against the outside of the airlock. I was cut up but not feeling much, just in a hurry to get the thing movin'. Harris got right to clearing the gear Mal'd used to force open the hatch on the Reaver ship, and Mal stood just behind him, gun working on what Reavers were still alive and comin' after us."

She paused to recall it – it was beyond her, the way those things kept coming. What kind of creatures act like that? Mutilate their faces and bodies? Take bullets like they relish the pain? Tear into people, devour even the injured of their own? And Mal had seen it too – _What the hell…?_ he'd asked as he kept firing and firing.

Book spoke up before she could go on. "Booby trap," he said, not a doubt in his voice. Zoë gave him a questioning look, and he explained. "Kaylee let it slip some months back, how she took she care of a threat when we docked with that wreck just after I came aboard. I've wondered how Mal knew to look for it."

She nodded. "Captain learns his lessons. Well, now and then he does.

"The blast wasn't big, but it probably killed Harris straight up. The force of it blew Mal back into the cockpit of his transport, which is the only reason he's still alive today. We'd left atmo since we'd got sealed into the Reaver ship, and the explosion vented us to the Black. The hatch to the cockpit closed on its own behind him, and what air we had was mostly kept inside."

That was another moment Zoë could close her eyes and recall as clearly as if it was happening again: Mal crashing against the back of her chair, then floating limply as the transport's grav went out. She'd got out of the pilot's chair quick, running into drifting globules of blood – her own and Mal's – that had already begun to fill the small space.

"Mal got hit pretty bad. Burns and a few bits of debris stuck in his chest. I figured he wasn't gonna make it, not the way he was lookin', but I couldn't leave him. Not after he'd come in there to get me.

"The transport we were in wasn't gonna fly no more; it was crackin' apart. But we'd got knocked away from the Reaver ship, and they had their own breach to deal with, so I had some time. I wrapped up the worst of Mal's wounds fast as I could, then got the spacesuits. Stuffed Mal in one, myself in another, opened the hatch, and out we went."

_Drifting away from the shattered transport and the torn up abomination, hoping to whatever deity's out there that those monsters don't come back and finish …_

"They shot out a grapple for the wreck we'd just been in. Guess they thought we were still there. They took it along, headin' out of the system, leaving a trail of filth behind."

…_she watches them leave, floating in the Black, the sounds of her heavy breaths and racing heart trapped inside her helmet along with the smell of her terror. Her injuries begin to sear as the adrenaline slowly wears off…._

"You got picked up?" Book prompted.

"Didn't take too long. Maybe an hour."

_Felt like years. The only thing to hold onto is the tether connecting her to another suit that shows nothing but wet red inside the faceplate. Just a bled out body, maybe, but she holds on anyhow. He saved her, and she'll take care of him best she can. Even if it's only to send his body home so his Ma can see him buried right. _

"Turns out, though," Zoë said, "it wasn't a rescue ship that found us. The colonel thought I was long gone, and was only out to track Mal down and arrest him." She glanced over to Mal where he slept. "Stupid húndàn'd stole them guns and that fighter, came after us against direct orders."

Book smiled. "And he got promoted for it."

She had to admit, there was some irony there. "Yeah, he did. So maybe I deserve part of the blame."

"The blame?"

"For his attitude." She felt an awkward smile spread across her face – wasn't easy to speak lightly after the tale she'd just told. But the Shepherd got her meaning.

"I doubt anyone can take credit for that," he said. "He seems to have been born with a heightened sense of independence."

"Drove me crazy at first," she admitted with a shake of her head. "I thought he'd be dead or AWOL within weeks after he joined. Didn't think someone like him could fight in a war. And then I go and make him a sergeant." She rubbed her neck, feeling an ache there like holding her head up was hard work. "But that's a story for a different time. I'm talked out."

"Are you… are you all right?" Book asked gently.

She had to think about it for a minute. She did feel tired and emptied out, but now that the telling was done she felt no dizzying edge closing on her. She looked down at her hands – these were her own. Under her own control, with no itch to do harm.

"I do believe I am," she said slowly. "Could be better, maybe. Wouldn't mind much if our ride showed sometime soon." She looked across the hillside to the level spot where _Serenity_ had landed just a few days back. It jarred her a bit to remember all the complications of the present, the unknown disaster that must have taken place on Highgate. She hated not knowing. She should have planned better, should have done something to see that this didn't come to pass. And one regret twisted her stomach more than any other – she should have said a better goodbye to Wash.

"They'll be here," Book replied, his voice as firm as if he truly believed it. "Simon's running things, and he's as capable as they come. He won't let us down."

She shook her head. "Sad to say, the doc's lettin' us down already. Mal ain't doin' good. He's gotten weak, mighty weak, for this thing to take him like it did."

She rubbed her eyes; recalling the complications of her present situation – and Mal's – didn't do her any good. There wasn't a thing she could do; no one to fight, no one to bark orders at, no one to blame for the delay. There was nothing to be done but sit and wait, and try to hold on to hope.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" Book suggested.

She looked toward Mal; the Shepherd read her meaning.

"I'll keep an eye on him. I understand the danger."

Once the suggestion was made, Zoë felt exhaustion pile onto her like a blanket of lead. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than sleep – as long as old nightmares didn't come for her.

She went straight to her bedroll without further argument, but then hesitated. After a moment, she shrugged and slid her sleeping pad right next to Mal's. Let Book think what he wanted; she needed to feel the sarge next to her while she slept.

– – –

Translations  
lăo tiān yĕ: God  
húndàn: bastard

– – –

_Comments welcome as always._


	12. Chapter 12

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

**

* * *

**

Chapter 12.

Eight years ago, House Madrassa, Sihnon

"Inara – here you are!"

Inara turns away from the mirror to greet her friend. "Is it time?"

"Very nearly," Lina replies. "You look fantastic." The last word comes out in three distinct syllables, the t's sharp as little wooden darts, making the compliment seem to carry more weight than if anyone else had spoken it.

"I'm nothing next to you," Inara returns with a warm smile. It may be an exaggeration – Inara knows very well that her beauty isn't easily eclipsed – but her words are based in truth. Lina is one of the more eye-catching of the Novices taking part in the ceremony today. Her tight-fitting gown suits her perfectly; the textured white silk contrasts her jet-black skin and covers her slim body simply but without being plain. Bands of gold cross the dress's bodice and stretch low over her shoulders to wrap her slender upper arms, but neither these trimmings nor her large gold earrings present any competition to the arresting brilliance of her eyes.

"Let us just say that we are quite a pair," Lina says, her sharply accented words full of good humor and joy, not pride. She slides a hand around Inara's waist and they stand for a moment, side by side, admiring their shared reflection.

_No, neither of us outshines the other,_ Inara thinks. They are like a pair of exotic birds from different continents, complementing and showing each other to their best advantage. Where Lina is almost impossibly slender in form and simple in decoration, Inara's oval face is surrounded by color and movement. A band of dangling rubies set in gold covers her hairline, matching her shimmering earrings and the necklace which lies heavily on her chest. Her rich red and black gown is similar to the saris of Earth-that-was, but modified to reveal more of her figure than the traditional design would have allowed. Such a dress is necessary for this event; the elite of Sihnon have gathered to see the Guild's newest offerings. An eye caught today is a client tomorrow.

"They have no idea what they're in for," Inara says with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"We will conquer the verse," Lina agrees, her head high, looking as regal as a goddess of old standing before her barbarian horde. "And they will love us for it!"

Her imperial pose breaks and they both dissolve in laughter.

"Inara," an even voice announces from the room's main doors. "You have a guest."

"You see," Lina says, "already they are clambering for a single moment of your time." She ghosts a kiss over each of Inara's cheeks, not touching so as to preserve their painstakingly applied makeup. "I will see that the Priestess is ready, and tell her you will be along directly." She wafts out through a side passage, managing to move with smooth, easy grace, even though her tight gown limits her long legs to smaller steps than she usually takes.

Inara checks herself one more time in the mirror. Now all she can see of her reflection is the light in her eyes; she has never felt as powerful and optimistic as she does now, not even on the day she joined this House. She feels that she might very well conquer the verse – and she certainly will be loved for it.

She smiles at her own giddy thoughts as she steps into the center of the room, placing herself to properly welcome her visitor. But the person who steps through the gilded doors is so completely unexpected that she can only take in a quick breath and stand dumbly in her place.

"Well, Kari," the woman says. "You're looking very fine."

Inara hasn't seen her mother in nearly seven years. She spent a week at home on vacation during her first year of training, but found the visit so unpleasant, her family so stiff and awkward, that she's never returned. They've exchanged messages over the years, dry, superficial updates and vague wishes to visit each other, but of course nothing ever came of it.

And so Inara's memory of her mother is much out of date. She recalls a beautiful, intelligent, strong woman with elegant manners and an impressively neat and stylish manner of dress, no matter that many of her clothes were second-hand. But this woman looks dull and colorless and sullen.

Inara finally makes herself smile and speak, forcing her voice to be light enough to gentle her words. "That hasn't been my name for some time."

Her mother's reply is stubborn. "It will always be your name."

"Only with you and father."

Inara succeeds in keeping her tone and her face pleasant, something she has learned how to do no matter her feelings, but her manners only seem to challenge her mother. The woman narrows her eyes, then turns aside and walks about the room, looking at the furnishings and decorations as if she's shopping for knick-knacks.

"I could have had this kind of life myself," she says, her voice nearly as light as Inara's. "But I wouldn't have had to do the things you'll be doing." She turns back and meets Inara's eye. "Have you yet?"

"Have I what?"

"Sold yourself?"

Inara almost gapes at the question, but controls herself. "I have been talking clients for more than a year now, as the final stage of my training. But I haven't had sex with any of them, if that's what concerns you."

Her last sentence comes out with a hint of sharpness, and that seems to satisfy her mother in some way. The woman turns her attention to a potted palm sitting in a corner and lightly strokes a large, dark green leaf with her fingertips. She speaks softly.

"I never took a man for money. I did the opposite – I left my wealth behind to be with your father. That is honor. That is love."

"Mother – " Inara stops and forces herself to be calm. This is her graduation day, a day to rejoice. She won't let herself be baited. "Mira," she continues, using her mother's given name for the first time in her life, "I have no wish to argue with you. I know you don't approve of my choices, but it is finished. I'm a Companion. If you can't take pride in that, at least be comforted in knowing that I'm happy."

Mira turns back and looks Inara up and down. "Are you? Are you really?"

Inara doesn't have to force a smile; it comes easily because this subject isn't open to argument. Her answer is a plain and simple fact. "I am. This is everything I've wanted. Everything I've dreamed. I'm quite good at it – and no, I don't just mean what you're thinking. It's about more than sex. You have no idea of the complexities of human nature that I've studied. The skills I have acquired apply to so much, so many important…" She suddenly realizes what she's doing – belittling her trade, changing it to fit her mother's expectations. "Not that there's anything wrong with making my clients happy through physical pleasure," she amends quickly.

"And taking pay for it?"

Inara sighs, feeling impatience tug at her, but she's not going to be drawn in. She much prefers to leave this be. She left her family years ago, and there's no use fighting this battle now.

"The ceremony is starting," she says firmly. "They're probably waiting for me." She takes a few steps toward the door, but then has to stop. Her mother has crossed the room to stand in her way.

"All my children make me proud, Kari," Mira says. "Just by being mine. You don't have to do this to prove yourself to me."

This time Inara does gape. "Is that… is that what you think?"

"I know you never approved of how we lived. You always wanted more. But you don't have to do this. Kari, you must not stoop to this level. It's not worth it." She reaches out a placating hand and touches Inara's arm, gripping lightly as if she's about to pull, to lead her daughter out of this place and back to her childhood home.

Inara shakes her arm free. "Mother – no! You don't understand me. You never have! But then, you never really tried, did you?"

She might have said more, but a soft voice from the side door interrupts. "Inara, it's time."

Inara looks over; it's Aileen, standing in the side doorway in deep blue silk and sapphires, her auburn hair piled on her head and nothing but concern in her eyes. Still, Inara has to turn away to hide the blush that must be coloring her face; she shouldn't have let herself snap. No matter how frustrated she feels, she shouldn't speak this way to her own mother. She's ashamed that Aileen has seen it.

"Kari?" her mother asks. She's still beside Inara, reaching out a hand as if she may yet take her away.

Inara straightens. From where she stands she can see her reflection in the mirror, and she's grateful that her make-up hides the heat in her face. She looks perfect. She looks like a Companion, and not her mother's daughter.

She should act like it.

"Are you attending the ceremony, Mira?" she asks, her voice cool and impersonal.

Mira drops her hand. "No. No, I have business in the city. I just... I thought I'd stop by."

Inara plainly knows the lie in that – her mother is here because she heard of the ceremony. She wanted this last chance to "save" her child. Or perhaps she's only worried about the financial support she'll no longer receive, now that Inara's training is ended and part of her allowance will no longer be sent home...

Beads tinkle as Inara shakes her head at herself, at the uncharitable nature of her thoughts. Her own mother deserves better, no matter her flaws. She looks again at Mira, forcing herself to see though a Companion's eyes untainted by the bitter little girl she still harbors inside herself, and for the first time she sees the woman's awkwardness. In the lengthening silence, Mira looks over to Aileen self-consciously and passes one hand over the front of her plain navy sweater, lightly touching the softly rounded belly of a woman who has born eight children. Wherever Mira grew up, whatever past of privilege lost she's held secret from her own daughter, she doesn't belong in a place like this anymore, and she knows it.

"I'll let you get to your business," she finally says with brittle dignity, and then she turns and leaves.

Inara has to draw in a deep breath and hold it against tears that she can't let fall. She doesn't even know what upsets her – is she angry at her mother's meddling, or sad to see this woman's plight?

She feels a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Did you know that 'Inara' is also the name of a goddess?" Aileen asks.

Inara drops her head and smiles. Trust Aileen to have saved such a fact for so many years. "No, I didn't."

Aileen changes the pressure of her hand on Inara's shoulder, lightly directing her out the side door as she speaks.

"Inara is the goddess of storms and protector of all wild animals. Except dragons."

"Dragons?"

Aileen's blue eyes crinkle with a smile; she's aged since Inara joined the House, but the lines on her face only give her more character, a suggestion of wisdom and experience behind her beauty. "Yes. You see, dragons have a tendency to annoy Inara. So much so that she threw a feast for one of the mightiest, him and all his family, serving up all the best dragon delicacies and wines. After they gorged and drank themselves into a stupor –" Aileen holds out her hands as if the jewels on her fingers might shoot lightening down the hallway. " – she obliterated them, tore them to shreds!"

This startles a laugh out of Inara. "Is that a suggestion?"

"Honestly, I'm just hoping to cheer you up. Don't take yourself too seriously, my dear. Any situation will improve if only you can laugh at it."

"I should laugh at my own mother?" Inara asks. "Is it funny that she comes here at this moment? After all these years?" _And should I rejoice in finally seeing her as she truly is? Now, when it's too late to bridge the gap between us? _

"Perhaps you should imagine her as a dragon. Lay out the best feast you can."

_If only there was a way,_ Inara thinks to herself, but she smiles wryly and plays along. "Then comes the death and destruction?"

Aileen laughs. "If it makes you feel better – but only in your mind, my dear. You'll never become House Priestess if you obliterate all who annoy you."

Inara takes that as a welcome change of subject, but shakes her head at the implied suggestion. The current Priestess has expressed her desire to step down, and though the date hasn't been firmly set it's sure to happen in the next few months. Aileen is the clear forerunner for the position.

"That title is for you to take," Inara says. "Not me."

"But I won't want it forever." Aileen smiles at Inara. "Just keep it in mind. You excel at teaching; all the novices adore you. You're quite good with children."

Inara shakes her head, though it's true. For the past two years she's been helping teach the youngest Novices, and she can't deny that they react well to her.

They reach the entrance to the hall and hear music playing within; quiet, patient music. The ceremony is waiting on them. But Aileen pauses and turns to Inara.

"Don't be brought down, Inara, or rue the past. Today you are your own woman, free of all bonds and constraints. You may choose your own way in life as befits you and no other. Enjoy your freedom; you've earned it."

Inara smiles and accepts a gentle hug before passing through the door. She's determined to do just as Aileen says.

– – –

VT-90 transport, Approaching Highgate

Inara's education had touched on many subjects, and it wasn't a stretch to include acting as one of them. But the character involved in playing a Companion was developed by each Novice over years of training, carefully designed to fit her own personality and interests, and never changed.

Now, by necessity, Inara needed to be someone else, someone entirely different from her adult self in every possible detail. And this was more demanding than her visit to the docks on Persephone – she couldn't just hide in the background, moving quietly through crowds and knowing that she could rely on her own strength if she chose to do so. This time, she'd need to be able converse with locals without ever being noted and remembered as a Companion.

To help herself along, she'd chosen a real life inspiration, someone she was comfortable and familiar with. She studied herself in her small handheld mirror, angling it down so she could see something of her newest outfit. The costuming had turned out well. She'd bought a light brown jumpsuit while she was on Persephone, just to have a change of clothes, and now it was stained with dirt and grease. A few streaks marked her face as well, and her hair was coiled up in two loose spiky buns toward the back of her head.

"I was just lookin' for some people in a Firefly," she tried, then worked her face into what she hoped was an innocent smile. What she saw in the mirror was so poor that she rolled her eyes and huffed. She sounded like a damned fool.

"A _gorramn_ fool," she corrected her reflection. "You sound downright… gorramn silly. Ain't no one gonna fall for that." The last sentence rolled off her tongue with something like Kaylee's easy lilt, and Inara felt a bit enheartened.

"Now, it ain't tricky," she explained to the face in the mirror. "I'm just hopin' to find where that crew might have gone. Um… figure where they might a' got to."

She took a deep breath and let it out, then dropped her shoulders in an attempt to match the slouch Kaylee often had. Once again, she did her best to smile haphazardly. Not a brilliant smile – it mustn't look smooth and practiced. Something unselfconscious and natural. Maybe even show some back teeth.

"I'm tryin' to find where they got to."

What she saw was at least progress. And it warmed her in an odd way, to have this little bit of her friend's presence in this plain, empty transport. She set down the mirror and returned to the cockpit to check her location; she was nearing her destination. Possibly nearing Mal, if she'd chosen the right course of action.

Inara was betting everything on the chance that Ginger Larkin and William Cantone were performing Marone's search, and that they would lead her to _Serenity_. Mr. Universe had tracked a ship identified in the captures Lina had sent Inara – the ship being used by the two Alliance agents. They'd left the Core for Muir a few days ago, then recently moved on to Highgate.

That was all Inara knew, and as helpful as it was, she still had plenty of work to do. A planet was a huge place, even one as sparsely populated as Highgate. She'd need help from the locals – hence the costume and act – and she'd start at the orbital refueling station. There was only one on the planet, so it was likely that Mal and Will had passed through and been seen. She'd have to ask after both _Serenity_'s crew and the undercover agents…

"Bout yay tall," she murmured to herself, imagining that she was describing William Cantone to a crowd of lonely young men in whatever served as the station's watering hole, charming them with Kaylee Frye's easy sweetness instead of Inara Serra's untouchable allure. "Dark hair, black eyes… Might have been traveling with a woman…" She clucked her tongue and adjusted her wording. "…might'a been workin' with a lady. A quiet lady. Morose… No! _Morose_ isn't right; Kaylee wouldn't say that. Um… _Grumpy_. A quiet, grumpy kind'a lady…."

She rolled her eyes at herself again. Channeling Kaylee was harder than she'd have thought. It was an idea worth the effort though – how else could Inara use her feminine wiles without standing out as a Companion? Kaylee had all the womanly charm one could imagine, but down-to-earth, with such a _real_-ness, that no one could mistake it for the result of training.

The thought made Inara uncomfortable. She'd known of the power she had over men for most of her life, but she'd never taken the kind of joy in flirtation that Kaylee did. That was the undeniable, honest-to-god, discomfiting truth. For all the romance and sex Inara'd had in her life, all the passion, very little of it had been joyful.

The cortex chimed, startling her from her reverie. It was Mr. Universe.

"Got news, Inara," he blurted out eagerly. "You were very right about your little undercover friends – they have been on Mal's tail, and they're close."

She took a breath to reply, but he barreled on, seeming in a hurry to share his news and be done.

"They got a step up for now, but only because it was a private security company that captured Mal's ship. I've been searching government records, since you did say that it was the Alliance– "

"Never mind what I said!" Inara finally managed to interrupt. "_Serenity_? Captured?"

He nodded cheerfully. "Being held in a colony on the surface. Now, now, none of that. No one was bound by law. The ship was empty when it was impounded, and your two undercover friends likely haven't found them – they haven't left the world yet, haven't even sent messages to the Core, not as far as I can find. And, trust me, I do tend to find everything."

Inara felt her mouth working as she tried to respond to any of the missiles of information the young man was firing at her, but he didn't give her a chance. He had been staring at her, but now looked to the side. He kept talking while his fingers rattled away on a keyboard.

"And here's what I'm going to do for you, given how very lovely you're looking today. You'll have official permission to land. Can't have your little ship getting snatched up for infractions, can we? Now…" He hit a final key with some satisfaction, sending a message off, she guessed, then leaned closer to the screen and lowered out his voice as if it was storytime. "The colony where _Serenity_ was taken has this medical clinic. The woman who runs it is known to bite the mining company's butt now and then. Most recently, (so my cleverly concocted story goes), she called in a specialist to inspect the colony's water purification system. Get it?"

He finally stopped talking so he could grin at her, and Inara had a moment to catch up.

"Water inspections?" she asked. "Wait – that's supposed to be me? I'm a _plumber_?"

"You're looking the part," he replied, and Inara raised a hand to the grease stain on her cheek. She'd forgotten what she looked like at the moment. "Don't bother to explain," he said with a wave of his hand. "I know how it can get, being by yourself for so long…" He sighed, then looked away from the screen wistfully.

"Do they expect me to actually inspect things? But… no one's going to believe me! I don't even know… what pipes are made of!"

"Think of it as proof of the depth of your love, that you'll go to such an extreme for your inamorato. Now, pardon me, but I have some love to prove myself."

Her screen blinked out as he cut the wave, leaving her to regret that she hadn't asked better questions. The ship captured? Impounded? But no arrests…

Maybe it was something as inanely stupid as unpaid tariffs. Maybe the crew was out gathering enough funds to pay…. which wouldn't be a bad situation. Inara'd be able to help with that. She'd offer money, even use it as a bargaining chip if she had to. It would be something to make Mal listen to her, to get past his anger and pride, to make the crew believe that she was sincere and deserved a second chance…

The thought brought Inara up short, and made her examine something she hadn't let herself dwell on before – it wasn't just Mal who'd been angry the day she left. Zoë had seemed ready to skewer Inara with something especially dull and unpleasant. The whole crew, though some of them would never admit it, was very protective of Mal. They may not be happy to see her. Not at all.

Inara's brooding was interrupted again as she neared the planet's atmosphere, and she had to take over the controls to guide her ship along. But as the flames of entry engulfed her transport, another thing Mr. Universe had said came back, replaying in her mind: Love.

_Prove the depth of your love… _

Her delayed reaction to his words caught her by surprise – it was a mix of dread and disbelief. Prove her love? Did she really love Mal? Of course she must, or she'd never have gone on this chase. But now that she may only be a matter of hours, perhaps minutes, from seeing him, she suddenly wasn't as confident. Not in her own feelings, and not in the outcome of this madness. What if he was disgusted with her, if he turned away and refused to listen, to let her help? Would she still be able to believe herself in love? She'd never in her life had to make an effort to win a man's affection. She'd never had to grovel or beg forgiveness. And Mal wasn't one to bestow it easily; perhaps the situation was impossible.

"Dear Buddha, why am I doing this?" she whispered to herself.

But it was too late for doubts now. She had to follow this though, and warn Mal of his danger. Any other outcome had to be left to the fates to decide.

– – –

Mining Colony E16, Highgate

Ginger finally had time to herself, but she wasn't enjoying it.

She knew very well why Will was letting her be – because he thought he had her in hand. He thought he had his leash tightened enough on her neck that he could let her wander, and she'd come back docile as a lamb.

The thing that got to her, that made her day as bad as any so far on this trip, was that she couldn't deny it like she wanted to. In truth, she was feeling bound. She was feeling gagged and tied up in knots, inside and out. Sick. Dirty.

The heat and the dry, salty air that blew through this colony didn't help. She stayed in the shade, in a narrow gap between two buildings, sitting on a concrete block with her feet kicked up on the wall opposite, and fanned herself. It was the best place she'd found to stay somewhat cool and still be able to see the entrance to the med clinic across the way. This stake-out was her task today; Will was at the mining company headquarters, leeching what info he could from the authorities.

The hours dragged, slow and heavy, with nothing to fill her time but to think of her future, ponder her options. No matter how she came at it, things looked the same as they always had: finish the job, top priority. Get this captain back to Marone and be done with it. One bump of the uglies with Will didn't change that, and she couldn't let herself lose focus.

Sometime late in the afternoon, she finished the water bottle she'd brought along and tried to call Will about a break, but he wasn't answering. She had no choice but smack her dry lips together and wait longer. She couldn't leave her post, couldn't risk being away when there were folks passing in and out of the clinic every few minutes.

"Liveliest damned place on the planet," she muttered bitterly.

Slowly, the dark of evening came, bringing some relief from the heat but not from the job. People kept trickling by, though not so many as before and all leaving now, no one arriving.

Full night settled over the town and the traffic stopped altogether. Ginger was ready to give up and call her day wasted, but then one last pair came out the door.

A single bulb lit them from above, and at first she wasn't able to make out their faces. Her eyes went straight to the man; even in the bad light she could tell he was well-made, maybe a bit younger than fit her taste, but still as fine a specimen as she could hope to admire on this world. He wasn't fit in the stringy, spare way of the miners she'd been watching all day, but had a certain muscular plumpness that spoke of many years of healthy living and clean eating.

Her interest changed directions as she followed through on the thought – this man was from the Core. Had to be. She squinted and studied his shadowed face, getting a better look when he stepped away from the door and the light caught him better.

She sat up suddenly; she'd seen him before. It was the doctor, the one from the Firefly. His name popped into her head: Simon.

She quickly realized that she knew the woman too. It was the mechanic, the one who'd hidden behind a shuttle's hatch and taken Ginger out with a high-voltage shock. That'd been a downright humiliating way to end a mission.

"Sāobī!" Ginger whispered sharply to herself, then she keyed on her comm. "Will, I got ID! Will!"

There was no answer, so she focused on taking in what details she could. Just then, a third person stepped out of the clinic, a tiny bird of a woman with short-cropped black hair. Despite being small in stature, the newcomer took over the situation with ease. A cheeky wave of her hand shooed the mechanic into the empty street, then the woman grabbed the doctor by the elbow and pulled him back toward the clinic's door.

Ginger watched, curious, while the two had quiet words. Well, the women did most of the talking. The doctor stared at the ground while the stranger talked in his ear. His replies were short; he was clearly uncomfortable, and glanced at the mechanic repeatedly. The girl only looked away stiffly – her body language tried to be casual, but Ginger guessed that there might be hell to pay for whatever was going down between the doctor and the strange woman.

Ginger knew she'd read the situation right when the tiny woman laid a hand on the doctor's shoulder, than pet down his arm in a familiar way, and the man looked like he wanted nothing more than to disappear into a chasm in the ground. The mechanic glanced at the pair once, then looked straight up like the stars were a sight to capture her full attention.

A hand suddenly settled on Ginger's own shoulder, making her jump.

"Damnit Will!" she spat, but he shushed her. His breath smelled of beer.

"Quiet!" he whispered. "Don't want to spook them."

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Waiting to hear from you." He stared at the scene across the street, taking in the three people standing in front of the clinic.

"I waved."

"Nothing important till just now. It is them. That's the doctor, huh? And the little mechanic. Don't know the other…"

"I been sittin' out here all damned day, you could'a brought me – "

"Shut up. They're moving."

Ginger looked back – the stranger was stepping away from Simon, though she still held his hand. "Just think about it," the woman said in a voice loud enough to carry, then she let go of him and turned away.

"They're splitting up," Will whispered. "Follow those two, and for cào tì stay hidden. They'll recognize you."

"Where you goin'?"

"To talk to the other one. She doesn't know us."

He slipped back down the narrow alley, moving fast and quiet, then disappeared out the other side. Ginger turned back to the clinic; Simon and the mechanic were moving down the street, walking an uncomfortable distance apart. Ginger was glad of it; whatever spat they were about to have, it'd keep them too busy to look around. She slid out of the shadows to follow. The night was dark, and the town had no public lighting; she easily crept up close enough to listen in.

"You don't gotta explain," the mechanic was saying in an even voice. "I told you before, we both got free will to do as we please, and this ain't gonna get complicated." She laughed, though to Ginger it sounded forced. "You Core folks put so much weight on nothin' but a bit of sexin'. You gotta lighten up!"

"Kaylee… it's not about that! Tori and I were just talking."

The mechanic looked at him sideways. "Come on, Simon. I know an offer when I see one."

"She… Okay, she did make an offer, but not like you think. She said I should stay here. She wants to open more clinics."

The girl folded her arms stubbornly and kept walking. "Ain't a bad idea. You'd do some good for these folks."

"It's not really about me. Tori thinks that River needs a stable place. I mean, after what happened last night…"

The girl didn't take the change of subject. "And you need a better place too. I know about it. You don't need to pretend, Simon."

He seemed genuinely confused. "What exactly am I pretending?"

"I know you asked her bout staying. She told me all about it."

"About… what?"

"She told me you liked it here. That you asked if she'd hire you on, so you'd get to do your kind'a job and be in one place and not be doin' crime anymore."

"Is that… is that what's been bothering you? Is that why you're mad at me?"

The girl kept her arms folded and lifted her chin into the air. "I ain't mad," she said stiffly. "Not a bit."

"She lied, Kaylee. I never asked anything! She made the offer just now. I hadn't even thought about staying here."

And yet – Ginger noted to herself – he wasn't telling what he'd replied to the offer. He wasn't saying that he'd turned it down flat. The girl didn't seem to notice the omission. She stopped to look at the doctor, her poorly concealed anger softening. Ginger stopped too, worried about being seen, and backed carefully against a rickety porch to hide herself in the shadows.

"That the truth?" Kaylee asked. "You never asked?"

Simon held up his hands. "Honest! I had no idea! She's obviously been planning this…"

Ginger froze – the mechanic looked back down the street toward the clinic, her eyes shooting darts of anger. But the girl's gaze was focused off into the distance and passed right over Ginger.

"I guess I should'a figured," Kaylee said, and her shoulders relaxed. She blew out a frustrated breath and took another long look at the doctor, then she started walking again. Simon followed, his eyes focused on the girl with a hesitant hopefulness. His relief was more obvious when Kaylee spoke up again, her voice taking on a note of teasing humor.

"I really _definitely_ should'a known. She told me something else about you – about you back in school – and I _knew_ that was a lie."

The young doctor took the hook. "What?" he asked with a half-amused, half-worried kind of curious. "What'd she say?"

Kaylee glanced over her shoulder once to smile at him. "I can't be sharin' girl talk. There's a kind'a code you know."

Simon followed like an eager puppy dog at its master's heels. "If she's telling lies about me, then there can't be any kind of code involved."

"Now, just cause she's a big fat liar don't mean I ain't honorable myself."

It went on like that as the two passed down the street; Ginger stayed a little further back now that she knew their talk was about and knew for sure that she wasn't interested. But after a few minutes they stopped in front of large, rambling building to face each other, and their body language took on a serious kind of stiffness again. She crept close enough to listen.

"You think Jayne got us a ship to use?" Kaylee asked.

"I certainly hope so." The doctor held up his hand – there was something in it. A small paper bag, all wrapped around whatever was balled up inside. "I'll be ready for Mal, just as soon as I make sure the power source is working. The wiring in this house is… questionable."

He looked up toward the building and Ginger took a closer look at the place herself, getting the hint that this was their destination. The outer walls of the place were old and splintered and the paint – a deep green, it looked to once have been, unless the dark was fooling her eyes – was faded and chipped, but rich pink curtains in the windows were shiny and lined with tassels. A sign hanging over the door drew Ginger's eyes; it was a wooden carving of a fat, swollen flower, the kind with big, thick petals that curve back, opening wide so a pollen-covered stamen could right stick out from the middle. _House of Huāzhù_, the sign said under the carved picture.

Ginger frowned, more than a bit surprised at what the building clearly was. She knew Reynolds and his crew had lost their ship and must have found other digs, but she was expecting some crappy pay-as-you-go rental shack. This place was nothing other than a whorehouse.

"It's fine, Simon," the girl said. "I set it up myself this morning, member? Come along with me and Wash to get the captain. He's… well, Zoë's gonna be all kinds of glad to see us. She's gotta be worried something fierce, not hearin' from us and all."

"No… I should stay." He glanced up toward the house again. "I don't want to leave River alone. Not here."

"Jayne'll be with her…. Oh... Well, bring her along. Do her some good to get out. I think she's bugged by last night too. She didn't mean no harm, probably feels bad as anything bout what she did."

"Probably still feeling sick, too." The doctor shook his head. "No, it's best she stay in one place. You and Wash go. I should have it all ready for the captain by the time you get him back here. I just hope it hasn't been too long… the rate of deterioration…"

"Hey – none of that frettin'! You done good, Simon."

The doctor smiled when the girl stepped close to him; she was clearly out to offer her own kind of reward for whatever it was he'd done so well.

"No, you did good," he said.

Ginger huffed and rolled her eyes, annoyed by the saccharin moment. But it didn't last, just a short smooch and then the two turned and climbed the stairs to the building behind them, hand-in-hand now that their argument was past. The happy couple entered the palace of sin like they were returning to their lifelong home, like someone's momma was waiting inside with a well-turned roast and an apple pie.

Ginger turned back and hurried down the street, off to tell Will her news. The captain wasn't here now, but he soon would be.

Hopefully, Will was making some progress with the stranger, cause neither of them were going to be able to walk in to the whorehouse. The crew of the Firefly would recognize them right off. But maybe the stranger, being a scorned woman (a feeling Ginger knew well), could be talked into helping. Or maybe they'd get Marone's permission to bring in local security. Or maybe, Ginger thought distantly, they could disguise themselves.…

She snorted at the ridiculous picture in her head, but didn't dismiss it.

– – –

Translations  
Sāobī: bitch  
cào tì: fuck's sake  
huāzhù: style, as in female organ of flower

– – –

_Feedback is crack. :)_


	13. Chapter 13

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

**

* * *

**

Chapter 13.

Highgate's second moon

When Zoë awoke, it had clearly grown darker. Enough time had passed for the sun above the clouds to move on, and that made her come to her senses in a quick second, sitting up to check that Mal was still sleeping beside her.

He was – peaceful as a babe. An extra blanket was spread over him, making it look like he'd had a momma to watch over him while he slept.

She rubbed her eyes, then noticed that a thick blanket was spread over herself as well. The Shepherd must have placed it there, she realized, and she was grateful for it. The wind had grown a few more teeth, and the bare skin of her face was chilled already. It made her wonder exactly how much time had passed. She tugged on her boots, then wrapped her extra blanket around her shoulders and climbed to her feet.

Book was sitting at the fire, a collection of small wooden animals scattered in random herds on the rock next to him.

"Looks like you've got a new trade, Shepherd," she said. "Ain't you slept at all?"

He looked up from his whittling. "Don't feel the need to," he said, then added casually, "Have you, by chance, ever seen a buffalo?"

She tried to get a look at what was in his hands. It looked like a very obese dog. "Only in picture books."

"Hmm." He considered his newest creation and frowned. "Then you'll do me the favor of believing that this…" – he held the thing up – "… is what one looks like."

Zoë smiled at his spirit, then made herself drop her blanket briefly so she could put the kettle over the fire.

"How long's it been?" she asked as she wrapped herself up again.

"Seven hours you've been asleep," Book replied. "Just about three days total, since we got here."

"That's it?"

He nodded gravely. She gave him a close lookover; there didn't seem to be a timepiece nearby, but he'd obviously been keeping track, maybe having his own worried thoughts about the falling temperature and dwindling foodstuffs. And, of course, the other problem that only got worse as time passed…

She looked over to Mal; he hadn't moved a bit. Comfy and happy in his warm burrow. Unburdened of many things since he was last awake, perhaps. Hard to tell if the burdens of his life were really lifted, or just hidden away. There was no way of knowing where his memories were going. It could be they were lost forever.

She shook her head – she wouldn't be accepting that. It simply couldn't be. Mal's memories were looked up somewhere deep inside him, in an iron box that just needed the right mix of medicines and high tech doctoring to pry the stubborn lock open, make the tumblers turn. Then he'd be set to rights. She wasn't about to consider anything different. She'd had this man in her life so long that she couldn't imagine going on without him. In fact, she could barely recall the time when she hadn't know him as well as she knew herself.

– – –

Eleven years ago, Shadow

The first time Zoë sees Malcolm Reynolds is at the end of a long day of resupplying, in the early evening hours when the soldiers are just finishing their chores and joining the line at the mess tent. The mood is somber; they're fresh from a fight that hadn't gone well. The Independents had been forced to retreat from Beylix in a hurry, their ground lost, the battle abandoned until a better day. Now they have some time to take their ease on Shadow; it'll be at least a few weeks before the higher ups make a fresh plan.

As happens on most Rim worlds, a few locals come asking to join up. And, as usual, they're from the local militia, volunteers with naught but the roughest training. In times like this, when there's not enough rookies to bother with a full boot camp, the newbs are scattered about. The theory is that they'll have a good chance to learn the ropes quickly if they're surrounded by experience.

Zoë's never been thrilled about this kind of thing; a green kid can cost more lives then his own if he melts when things get hot. This time, she's especially not pleased. The new one assigned to her own unit looks to be the freshest of all the fresh blood. He comes to find her just outside the mess tent and hands her his paperwork, his face lit with an eager smile. All she can see is his factsheet: just joined Shadow's defense force a few days ago, and surely he'd only done that so he'd end up here.

"Private Reynolds," she says, trying out the name as she looks him up and down. His shaggy brown hair hangs over his forehead, his shirt is tucked slightly askew, and his trousers are all crinkled up. He carries his newly acquired brown coat over his arm like it's an old horse blanket. Truth be told, he looks neater than much of the regiment – Independents tend to pride in not being as primly tight-assed as those they fight – but, as a new guy, he needs a proper welcome.

"You think you're a soldier?" she asks with a harsh edge to her voice. "You're a gorramn mess. Who taught you to put on a uniform?"

He looks down at himself, his smile gone and his forehead crinkled up in self-conscious worry as he rubs his jaw. Zoë has a moment of her own unease – it's bad enough to have a new recruit join the regiment at this point; if he's a cream puff who can't take harsh words, she'll just have to find a way to send him back home.

"Well, ma'am," Reynolds finally says, "I only had my momma to teach me how to dress, but I figure the heat a' battle ain't the place for a calico gown. Enemy might think I'm pretty."

Zoë hears a light guffaw from someone behind her, and her worry turns to annoyance. The cocky grin that spreads across the new boy's face doesn't help. Well – the info sheet says he's only a year younger than she is, but he looks so gorramn fresh-faced that if she didn't know better she'd place him a good five years back. Doesn't seem like he's been off his world much. Possibly never.

"Your momma ain't here, Reynolds," she says, no humor in her voice. "So you better get to workin' things out on your own. I'm your corporal, Corporal Alleyne that is. You need any help with settling in, including how you put your britches on, you make sure and ask someone else and don't bug me."

His face falls. He looks a little lost, like he's casting around for all the things he'll have to do for himself now. "But…" he starts hesitantly, then he leans over, mimes stepping into something – a pair of pants. "Is it the left or the right goes first? I always forget that part."

Zoë frowns at the innocent confusion on his face, then she hears outright laughter behind her, and the young clown straightens up and waves to the laughers with a grin.

"You eat yet?" she asks stiffly.

He shrugs. "Had a snack on the trip over, ma'am, but a little real food wouldn't hurt."

_Real food? she thinks. He'll learn about that right quick._

"Ain't you lucky it's dinnertime. We got the best protein you'll find anywhere. Get in line."

She hopes he'll take the hint from her tone and quit acting like he's just arrived to summer camp and can't wait to start playing, but the smile stays on his face as he goes to the back of the food line. The vet soldiers ahead of him are beat after a hard day of restocking supplies and weaponry, and clearly aren't in a social mood, but he doesn't seem to notice. He immediately introduces himself to all those nearby, and asks about their day.

Zoë knows right then that Reynolds is gonna be a headache.

And he is.

He's never done anything but work a ranch, and he has to be shown every damn thing. He's in decent shape for a civilian and can aim a gun eerily well, but herding cattle and shooting tin cans isn't fighting a war. He knows nothing of the weaponry and tactics of the Independent army, much less the high tech artillery, complicated strategies, and deadly tricks like landmines and seekers used by the Alliance.

To work in the rookie and keep the rest of them from sinking into any kind of doldrums, Sergeant Ross has Zoë run the whole group through some basic drills while they wait to return to action. Of course, she keeps a special eye on Reynolds. He doesn't do so well. She stands over him as he lags behind the others, crawling in the mud or dragging his body over obstacles, breaking down and reloading an unfamiliar gun with cold, clumsy fingers.

_You havin' fun now, rookie? _she taunts. _You thinkin' you can take back that volunteerin' you did? You wonderin' why you raised your hand? You can put it down and go on back home, anytime you want…._

But, no matter how she rides him, he comes out with at least half a grin, like he knows he'll do better next time. And that night he finds someone else to sit next to over supper, and he talks like he's known them all his life.

Zoë doesn't trust that. She can't see why he doesn't just shut his mouth and take his rest like everyone else. It bothers her; this isn't a gorramn social club, and she means to get that through his head before she takes him into the heat of battle.

A fortnight after Reynolds joins, the action picks up back on Beylix, and plans start coming down. The officers are meeting, working out strategies and timing the move off of Shadow. And, while the masters of the game keep themselves busy with logistics, the idle pawns do what idle pawns of the Browncoat army tend to do.

They drink.

Sergeant Ross has given Zoë her own tasks, so she doesn't join the grunts in the mess tent until the festivities have been going on for an hour or two. But she arrives just in time for the highlight performance of the evening.

Reynolds is standing against a wall of the tent, holding one of the supports with an outstretched arm. His body is tilted sideways and one leg is lifted off the ground, as if he's trying to float in the warm, stuffy arm of the tent. His free arm waves above him, circling the way an arm does when a body is stabilizing itself in zero G.

"You can _not_ lose track!" he says in a gruff, lecturing way, mimicking a voice that's awfully familiar to Zoë. "Can't be forgettin' which way's up, or you'll – " Suddenly he cuts off with a girlish yelp and waves both hands in front of his face, like he's batting at stuff in his way. His audience laugh loudly at first, but then cut it back when they notice that Zoë's watching.

The bastards are sneaky though, they don't clue Reynolds in. She stands a few meters behind the newbie and folds her arms, watching him play up his act, and her frowns deepens. She recognizes the moment he's bring back to life for all to see, and she's not happy about it.

This unit specializes in surface warfare, but they spend plenty of time getting moved around between worlds, and can come under attack while in transit. Therefore, each soldier needs to know their way around a ship, with and without grav. Given that Reynolds has never been in the Black before, Zoë's made sure he's taken part in a few runs up to the orbital supply ships, just to give him a chance to get his space legs. If zero G is like to make him vomit, best he get over it now.

He certainly had his troubles the first time up. Not of the vomiting type, more in the way of a lack of grace. He tumbled all over the hold of the ship, not listening to a word Zoë said about making small movements and using a light touch. Nope, he had to do it his own way.

On the second trip up, he got a little better. Had time to think on it, was her guess. So she started giving him lessons on how to move faster, how to deal with pressure loss and get himself into a suit before his eyes and ears explode. Reynolds, of course, didn't take direction well, and she lit into him just like she had on the training course planetside. She was in mid-rant when she went and kicked her foot against the bulkhead and set herself to spinning. In desperation, not wanting to look a fool in front of the hapless rookie, she grabbed tight to a package strapped to the wall.

It wasn't a good choice of handhold; her fingers tore right into the soft sides of a packet that some idiot had left unprotected, and a bit of it pulled away in her hand. She found herself floating free and enveloped in a cloud of white: cooking flour, thick gobs of it rushing into her throat and up her nose. That set her to sneezing something fierce. Which made her spin more. Which – she has to grudgingly admit – probably had been a mite funny at the time. Still, it isn't anything she wants acted out for the whole damned squadron.

Reynolds does an impressive job of recreating zero G, playing up the sneezing and the spinning, and the troops at the tables just smile and sip their drinks, knowing that the show is set to get even better once the rookie catches on to Zoë's presence and she makes her opinion of all this known.

It isn't long before an acrobatic move turns Reynolds, and he finds himself face to face with her. She expects him to be embarrassed and apologetic, but that's asking too much.

"Corporal Alleyne!" he says as he straightens, his words slightly slurred with drink. "Glad you made it. You're just in time for the good part. Look at this…"

She stops him from going into another move. "Oh, I seen plenty."

"But I –"

"Reynolds, I think maybe you ought'a have a seat and a canteen of water."

Her tone finally gets through to him, and he straightens and gives her an assessing stare.

"Maybe _you_ ought'a lighten up," he says with a frown. This brings a round of ooo's from the troops sitting behind him, and then it gets quiet. Very quiet.

"What?" Reynolds asks innocently, looking around at his peers, but they're no longer meeting his eye. The stupid boy has no idea what he's walking into, Zoë thinks, and if he can't read this situation, what the hell will he be like in a few days, when bullets are flying and shells are raining down?

"Outside," she says in a tone that makes all the other grunts look down at their hands. But Reynolds still doesn't have a clue.

"What?" he asks again, this time directing the word at her. "Come on, pull up a chair and have a drink – "

She walks forward and grabs his arm, then gives him a shove toward the door of the tent, just in case he's too far gone to find the way himself. There's a rustle as some of the others get up to follow, but she stops them with a look.

"The rest a' you stay put," she orders. "I'm just havin' a few words with the newbie, ain't none of your business."

They know better than to cross Corporal Alleyne, and with a few disappointed clucks they sit back down to their whiskey and ale.

Reynolds is waiting outside the tent, looking like he expects a hug from his cohort more than what Zoë has in mind. Which explains his surprise when she punches him.

She doesn't put everything into it – can't chew him out if he's unconscious. He stumbles back a few steps, wobbling and barely keeping to his feet, then wipes blood from his lip. He looks up at her, mouth and eyes open in befuddlement.

"What the hell was that for?"

"Cause I don't like you," Zoë answers, her voice cool and even. She steps forward, meaning to put a little fisty punctuation on her statement, but he catches her by surprise and strikes before she can wind up proper.

It's her turn to step back, and the copper tang of blood fills her mouth. She focuses her eyes again and sees Reynolds watching her, his hands raised, his balance almost steady as he waits for her reaction.

"m'I gonna end up in the brig for that?" he asks.

Zoë spits, then squares off. "I reckon I'm the one started it."

He grins, though the expression doesn't touch his eyes the way it had while he clowned in the tent. "That mean _you'll_ be in the can?"

"I'm thinkin' not. We're just settin' aside the rules for a bit. Ain't no corporals or privates out here. Not right now."

She steps forward and tries him with her right fist. He blocks it and swings at her, but she's expecting the blow and dodges just enough. She'll have a bruise on her jaw where his fist glances off, but he'll have a bigger one where she lands an answering left jab on his right cheek. This time he goes down.

"Ow!" he says from his hands and knees, one hand on his face. His jaw works sideways as he checks the damage. "I think you broke my gorramn tooth!"

"I suggest you stay put, Reynolds. Way you move, this ain't gonna go good for you."

He looks up at her. "You start a fight and I ain't supposed to fight back? What the hell are you after?"

"Just wanna make sure I got your attention. I got a few things to say."

"Ha!" He snorts a short laugh. "It's worth a knock to miss an earful of gōushī." He gets up and gives himself a shake, then takes a loose fighting stance and looks at her like _now_ he means business.

This time, she lets him move in and take the first swing, which she avoids cleanly. It leaves him wide open, and she punches him in the stomach. When he doubles over, she hooks a foot around his knee and gives a push to upend him. She could hit him again, but it's too easy, beating up Reynolds. She's proved her point by now, and it'll do no good to damage him.

"Gorramn, woman," he says when he's half done coughing, half curled up on his side. "I been drinkin'."

"That supposed to be an excuse?"

"You ain't supposed to hit a drunk in the stomach!" he says, that adds in a bitter mutter, "Gonna make me puke." He keeps coughing, and makes a few sounds like he just might lose his dinner.

"Swallow it down, farmboy. And when you're done, if you're still feelin' stupid, get up." She keeps her fists raised, but Reynolds just dumps himself over onto his butt and looks up at her.

"I thought we was supposed to be on the same side," he sputters.

"That's right," she says. The fight's out of him now, so she drops her fists and steps up to tower over him. "We're on the same side, Private. For a purpose – and that purpose is comin' at us fast. A shuă zuĭ pí kid like you ain't ever seen what we're up against. I have. This ain't a barroom brawl we're headin' into. Which is a good thing, cause you ain't no gorramn good in a fight."

He gets a hurt expression over that, but he doesn't argue. At the moment, he doesn't have much ground for disagreement.

"Those Alliance folks got their stuff together, Reynolds," she continues. "They'll be waitin' for us – standin' ready with high tech guns in their hands, or ridin' the kind of war machines we'll never have for ourselves. They'll be all set to finish those of us who make it through the fire that'll be coming out of the sky. If you want any chance of livin' through it, you'd best shape up, cause I'm tellin' you, there ain't no joke gonna get you through what's comin'."

He stares at her, his breath short and mouth hanging open like maybe Zoë's gotten through to him at last, made him figure out that he's military now and better get in line and start acting like a soldier. She steps back, giving him room to climb to his feet, and waits while he spits out a fat glob of bloody phlegm and wipes his mouth.

"Corporal Alleyne," he says when he's ready to speak, "with all due respect, I thought the point a' all this fighting was that we _don't_ end up like them."

He straightens up all the way, still looking at her, and there's no joke in his face now. His words are so far from what Zoë expects to hear, and have such a ring of something true, that she just shuts her mouth.

He turns away and heads back to his tent on unsteady feet.

They find a distant peace after that, partly because they have to, what with the battles coming on. Too much needs doing and Zoë doesn't have time for swapping words. But she quits razzing Reynolds for his attitude, and lets him have his fun with the gang, long as it doesn't get in her way. And he tones himself down around her, shutting up whenever he sees her nearby. He acts out her commands without rolling his eyes like he used to, even seems to make an active effort to listen when she talks, to understand her orders and make sure others do too.

There isn't fear or resentment in how he treats her – there's respect. Like maybe he's heard what she said about being in the military, and he's had a thought or two about how death is waiting right around the corner, ready to take anyone who slips up. Maybe he knows that she's just trying to prevent that as much as she can.

But when he thinks she isn't around, he's just as much a smartass as ever. Though it grates on her, Zoë watches from a distance. She sees how the troops take to him. It gets so there's a crowd around whatever serves as a table during chowtime, with Reynolds in the thick of it. Not that he talks all the time, but he has a way of getting other folks to feel easy and open up, a way of making it seem like a meal and not just grub shoveled down in haste.

When they make their move back to the fight on Beylix, leaving the easy days on Shadow behind, Reynolds surprises her by making it through the first day of fighting.

He surprises her more when he's still alive at the end of the second.

After a week, he's caught the edge of a bullet, but not enough to keep him out. He doesn't even whinge about it, just wraps his wound and keeps going. For all his attitude, the boy has a fire in his belly. If she had more time, she might ponder why. But, as it is, she lets it alone, just keeps a curious eye on him.

After a few weeks of fighting stack up, Zoë sees more to make her think. She's always stayed back out of the way when folks return from battle half-dead tired and full of thoughts about the death they've seen or caused that day. They need the time to themselves, or that's what she's been taught. So she's always watched silently as they sit down to another too-small meal of tasteless goo then stretch out for a few hours of down time before being roused from their bunks to do it all again.

But Reynolds does things differently. He always has some spirit about him, a few light-hearted words and a story of the day told in a way that makes the horror of the battle shrink in everyone's memory. Zoë soon sees that the soldiers in their unit face their hardships a little easier with some banter to buoy them up, to remind them they're still people and life has more to it than hate and fear and death.

Despite herself, Corporal Zoë Alleyne finds her own respect for the volunteer private from a ranch on Shadow, the boy who doesn't seem to take anything seriously and isn't the most keen when it comes to following orders. Cause here's the thing – Private Reynolds not only continues to survive, he has a habit of bringing those around him through the fire as well. They come out in one piece, body and mind ready to fight again tomorrow, and that's something.

– – –

Highgate's second moon

Zoë was still staring toward Mal, her eyes set in that direction but not quite seeing since her mind was elsewhere, when he woke suddenly. He sat up like he'd been startled out of a dream, and put a hand to his chest, feeling for a pendant that wasn't there.

"She'll kill me, she finds out I lost it," Mal muttered.

His hands kept groping the top of his shirt. The sight reminded Zoë of a day she'd learned something else about Malcolm Reynolds.

– – –

Eleven years ago, Beylix

The squad has been holding the western flank of the battle front for a day and a half without rest. It's a necessity; most of the regiment is busy moving new supplies up to the shifting battle lines, and manpower is limited.

It's not as bad as it could be, since the other side's taking a bit of a break themselves. There isn't a lot of firing, just a few volleys when the Alliance makes feints, as if trying the Browncoat defense out. The group following Sergeant Ross and Corporal Alleyne lose only one of her unit, a lady name of Daniels, when a chance shell lands right next to her during the dark of night. The shrapnel near tears her apart, and that never is a good sight to see.

Other than that, it's been nothing but occasional sharp shooting of Alliance scouts that creep close in the dark, looking to make mischief with a grenade or two. This is something that Private Reynolds shows some aptitude for; the boy is a good shot, whatever else he may be.

Another unit finally shows to replace them in the cold pre-dawn hours of their second day out. Zoë rounds up her bunch to follow Sergeant Ross back to the temporary barracks that's been thrown together just outside of the village they're defending. A few of the soldiers go for a bite to eat, but most find an empty tent to pass out in. Sergeant Ross goes to talk strategy with the higher-ups, and Zoë stops by the mess tent. Not because she has any desire to eat, but because it's her job to see that all the troops are filled up and bunked before she gets horizontal herself.

It doesn't take long to settle her flock – all except one. She takes a last walk around the perimeter, looking for her lost sheep, and finds Private Reynolds on the edge of the camp beside a clump of trees. The sun is about to rise, off to the left of the copse, and Reynolds is down on one knee, his head bowed toward the lightened edge of the world. He's clutching one hand around something that hangs from his neck, and his eyes are closed.

Zoë knows that the respectful thing would be to hang back until he finishes, but in this quiet moment between fighting and oblivion, the rules don't seem to matter much.

"You puttin' Daniels to rest?" she asks, meaning the woman they'd lost in the course of the night.

He doesn't start when she speaks, which might say something about his improved instincts, that he's heard her approach enough to not be startled. Or maybe he hasn't even heard her words, because he's as still as the dead for another half minute.

Finally, he kisses the thing he holds in his hand – a silver cross, she sees – and tucks it into his shirt. He stays kneeling, just rocking back on his knee to half-sit, then without looking up at her he speaks in a soft voice.

"I killed three this time out, near as I can tell."

Zoë tenses at his words. It isn't that she doesn't understand how he's feeling, but she knows that thinking on war the way he is can tear a soldier apart from the inside. Her own dad taught her that; there's more to protect in battle than your body.

"It's war," she says coldly. "It ain't killin'."

"That so?" he asks, but she knows he isn't looking for an answer.

The sun comes over the horizon, and he looks up at it. Zoë doesn't, she watches the light on his weary face, sees the struggle in his eyes and the effort it takes him to draw a steady breath. She understands that what she's seeing now is normally hidden behind a grin; she just hadn't known that such a light-hearted boy could feel so much.

And, just like that, she stops thinking of Malcolm Reynolds as a boy.

"Hit the sack, Malcolm."

He looks at her, and she hopes he sees kindness in her face. He must; he nods, then stiffly rises to his feet and goes in search of an empty billet.

– – –

Highgate's second moon

"It ain't here," Mal said, wiping a hand over his sleep-filled eyes. He gave up the search for his pendant and crawled out of his bedroll.

"What's that, s–," Zoë caught herself before she called him "sir." He wouldn't understand that now. "What's that, Reynolds?" she said in a stronger voice.

He glanced at her once, but she wasn't at all sure he saw anything. He looked to be still half caught up in whatever dream had been occupying him. He scratched at his head, like he was trying to get blood flowing, then took a few clumsy steps toward the fire.

"Malcolm," he said. "I go by Malcolm."

She nodded. The name of _Mal_ was given to him by the squadron. That had to mean he thought he was early on, just after joining. It was a big step, a lot of his life gone from his head since last he was awake.

"You hungry?" Book asked, not like he meant to offer food but just like he was trying to get Mal to focus on something. Like Zoë, the Shepherd was trying to read the captain's mood. But Mal didn't get a chance to reply before something else caught all of their attention, a rumbling that seemed to come from all directions at once. It might have been thunder, but it didn't roll and fade, just steadily grew and focused until Zoë and Book were stepping outside the tent, their eyes raised to the low hanging clouds, and Mal followed a few steps behind.

It started as an orange light, a diffuse glow that turned to a ball of fire as it broke through the clouds, and then a darker shape coalesced above it, a ship riding the pillar of its in-atmo burner down toward the surface. This ship wasn't the one Zoë'd been watching and hoping for; its clunky shape was far smaller and less graceful than a Firefly. She started to step toward her bag to grab her carbine, just in case, but the ship's course eased her mind. Whoever was at the helm, they knew about this camp. The pilot brought it straight down to a spot about forty yards out from where she stood, just far enough to keep the tent clear from the engine's burn.

It was exactly in the same spot _Serenity_ had landed to offload them three days ago.

Zoë was moving toward it even before the transport shut off, and her feet stepped faster when there was no heat of the engine to singe her skin. She was five steps from the hatch when it opened, and she was in Wash's arms the second he stepped out.

She hadn't ever been so happy to see her husband – not that she did a lot of seeing him in the first few seconds – as she was now. She couldn't recall ever being more grateful for his arms around her, his lips on hers, his hand on her back to clutch her tight and damned what any on-lookers might think of them being so needy of each other. This moment wasn't for anyone but them.

When she finally pulled away from Wash, it wasn't very far. Her hands couldn't let go of his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, his ears, the familiar curve of the back of his head. Her forehead couldn't lose contact with his.

"Where the hell have you been?" she asked.

Wash broke into a smile. "Well, that's a bit of a story."

"Start tellin'."

"Now… might not be the best time." His voice held a note of practicality that she couldn't allow herself to ignore. Awareness returned; there were others here, people she needed to care for. She raised her head and saw Kaylee standing just behind Wash, waiting for the reunion to end so she'd have room to step through the hatch.

"Hey Zoë!" the girl said with a finger-wiggling wave of her hand.

Zoë could do nothing but nod. "Does Simon have it?"

"We're all set," Kaylee said cheerfully. "Just need to get the captain over to Highgate, plug him in."

Zoë turned back toward the camp – the Shepherd had it all well in hand; he was pulling tarps down already. Zoë nodded to Kaylee, then took Wash's hand and led him over to the tents. The packing up and leaving couldn't happen too fast; storytelling would have to wait for the ride.

Mal was still standing a ways out from the camp, looking on. Zoë paused, prepared to make introductions yet again. But it'd be easier this time, she reasoned, since she was dealing with a private who (ideally) took orders, rather than the stubborn captain of his own ship.

"This is our ride, Reynolds," she said.

Mal backed off a step, and the defensiveness in his eyes sent a shiver up her spine.

"What is this place?" he asked. "Who are you people?"

– – –

Translations  
gōushī: crap  
shuă zuĭ pí: smart-ass

– – –

_And aren't you lucky – when I originally wrote this, it was 3 months before the next chapter came out. But this time – only two days. ;)_


	14. Chapter 14

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

* * *

**Chapter 14.**

Highgate's second moon

"Who are you people?"

Kaylee stood dumb-founded. The moment of heart-warming greeting, of Zoë and Wash kissing like they didn't need air, had passed. Now the couple only stood as still as Kaylee herself, all three of them frozen and near to gaping at the captain's question.

"What is this place?" Mal asked as he stepped away from them and looked the dull hillside over. He shook his head and muttered to himself, "Shouldn't be this cold. It can't be so cold, not at high summer…"

"You ain't on Shadow," Zoë said firmly, finding her voice at last. "You've… you've gone travelin', Malcolm. I know that seems odd, but –"

"Odd – just a bit!" he said, turning back to her. "You know me? You know how I got here?"

With that, Wash took himself right out of the situation. "I'll just go pack," he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder toward the campsite.

"Yeah," Kaylee added. "We'll be... we'll be gettin' all the…" She turned her back and followed Wash across the rocky slope, moving away from the captain and Zoë as fast as she could.

Mal didn't know Zoë? How could it be, that he didn't even know Zoë? Kaylee knew full well that he was losing his memories. For the past few weeks, starting the day Inara left the ship, he'd woken up every morning with new gaps, times of his life he couldn't recall. And it had seemed to move faster as time went on, till he forgot how Simon, River, and Book had come onto his ship. A few days later he didn't know Jayne, then Kaylee herself was lost (and she tried hard not to let herself recall that day, the moment the captain looked on her as a stranger).

Three days ago, _Serenity_ had left Zoë and Book on this moon to care for the ailing captain while Simon and the rest went looking for a cure. Mal'd still recognized his ship then. Barely. In his mind, _Serenity_ had been not much more than a shell, newly purchased and awaiting all the work of fixing her up and filling her with crew. But in the three days since…

How could he have forgotten so much? If he didn't know Zoë, he didn't even know the war…

Kaylee wrapped her arms around a roll of bedding that Book held out to her. She took it from him blindly, not even meeting his eye or nodding hello, and turned back toward the borrowed transport that she and Wash had flown over from Highgate.

They didn't have _Serenity_. The ship had been taken from them, and that was a problem yet to be solved. But Kaylee couldn't think on it; all she could see was Zoë, talking and talking, the captain standing in front of her but leaning away like he was thinking of maybe turning and running. Confusion and bewilderment were easy to read on his face, and that wasn't usual. The captain wasn't one to let his feelings show.

Kaylee dropped her head as she passed Mal and Zoë by, but she could hear them talk.

"I'm just tellin' you that you're sick, Malcolm," Zoë said. "You hit your head. Right there… "

Kaylee couldn't resist sliding her eyes to the side to see how the captain reacted. He raised his hand to his forehead; a little bandage was stuck over a bump above his eyebrow. Nothing serious. Certainly nothing big enough to cause what Zoë was suggesting, but he accepted it – although in a way Kaylee would never have expected.

"Hú chĕ!" he said. "I got amnesia? Like in some kind'a spy vid or mystery book?"

Kaylee stopped to stare at him in surprise; he didn't look near as alarmed as she'd have expected. In fact, an edge of something like humor lit his face, like he was more than ready to find a light side of all this.

"That's right." Zoë glanced at Kaylee, then put a hand on Mal's back and led him aside. "Your momma called on me to get you some help cause she knows how I travel. She knows I got contacts a'plenty."

"You know Ma? How's that?"

Zoë glanced at Kaylee again, and the message was clear: _Move. Pack up. Leave. Now. _

Kaylee hurried to set the bedding in the ship.

The next time she passed the two by, Mal was laughing. "I can't believe you know bout that! I don't recall meetin' you at all!"

Zoë was smiling too. "Well, you had to be maybe… maybe six years of age at the time. I only visited for a few days, long enough to have a look at the land your mom was considerin' to buy."

Kaylee studied the captain, shocked again that he only nodded and listened raptly. Did he really believe he was so much younger than Zoë?

"Wish I'd given her better advice on how to use that field, though," Zoë went on. "She must'a put so much work into growin' that corn – "

Mal finished for her. " – when lettin' it go wild for grazin' was easier and paid off better in the end. Yeah, she used to complain about that stretch of land all the time, till we changed it over."

Kaylee shook her head after she passed them by – Zoë sure was smart. She'd never met Mal's family, that much Kaylee had gathered from the few things she knew of Mal and Zoë's past, that they met in the war. But Zoë had to know plenty about his childhood home. He'd surely told her about it himself. And it looked like the stories were enough to win his trust; when Kaylee came back toward the transport with a box of leftover food, nothing more was to be overheard. Mal and Zoë were heading over to join with the carrying.

That sped things up. It took the five of them two more trips each, and then Kaylee found herself standing next to the Mal and Book inside the transport, passing a minute while Zoë and Wash strapped things down.

"You're a preacher?" Mal asked Book. His voice didn't sound like it ever had, not that Kaylee could recall. Eagerness and respect filled his words – for real, too, not like he was making a joke, playing up an admiring awe he didn't feel.

Book handled it well; he didn't hesitate to smile and offer a hand. "My name's Shepherd Book. I'm from Southdown Abbey on Persephone."

"You make a home with these folks? Carry on service and all?"

Book glanced at Kaylee before he answered carefully. "Yes, but… the captain who generally runs things on our ship prefers for worship to take place privately, if at all."

"Huh," Mal grunted. "Sounds like a jerk."

"I guess... he's been through a lot. Um, Malcolm, this is Kaylee."

"I'm the ship's mechanic," Kaylee said, trying to sound as natural and friendly as the preacher. "And don't you worry about a thing. We'll take good care of you."

Mal nodded and shook her hand, then stared at the deck. He suddenly seemed a bit flustered.

"Is it… is it weird?" she asked.

"What's that?"

"Not having your memories? Are you worried or… scared? At all?"

He shrugged and flashed her a little smile. "Ain't no use wasting worries, as Ma says. I'm sure it'll work out."

"But… you don't know any of us."

His smile got wider. "I guess I've met Zoë there before, I just don't recall. And here you got a man of God with you, and that says a lot. Anyway, Ma wouldn't have sent me along with you folks less she knew I'd be all right."

"Have a seat, travelers!" Wash suddenly announced. The packing was done and he was moving toward the cockpit. "This bird doesn't fly as smooth as our usual ride. It'll be bumpy till we leave atmo."

"We're going into the Black?" Mal asked. He sounded excited.

"You ain't never been?" Kaylee asked.

He shook his head, looking sheepish. "We never had a ship that could break atmo."

"Go on up with Wash, then," Zoë said, and she waved toward the cockpit. "Take in the sights."

Mal nodded eagerly – the main hold had no viewports – and went to the co-pilot's seat. Kaylee settled back on a bench and watched; the captain looked thrilled, chatting at Wash while the pilot fired things up. Mal turned back once and caught Kaylee staring at him. He flashed another quick smile, but his face reddened. Kaylee dropped her eyes quickly. She had a bizarre and discomfiting feeling that he thought she was meaning to flirt, staring at him like that.

The engines powered up with a rattling roar as the transport lifted off, and she could no longer hear Mal and Wash talking. That meant they couldn't hear what was discussed in back, either.

"All right," Zoë said firmly, leaning toward Kaylee as far as the safety belt around her lap would allow. "Where's the damned ship?"

"Uh… we can't get to her right now," Kaylee replied.

"Can't get to her?" Book asked.

"I guess… it's complicated."

Zoë glared. "So – simplify."

Kaylee took a deep breath. "I'd best start at the beginning," she said. _And leave out some details,_ she added to herself. What had passed between her and Simon wasn't important to the captain's business. Still, she had to take a minute to smile as she remembered…

– – –

Sixty-one hours ago; Firefly _Serenity_

Kaylee carefully slid open the door of Simon's bunk. The room had a warmth and a scent that didn't visit this ship often. She sniffed and smiled – maybe she was only imagining a lingering steaminess in the air, but the faint musky smell of sex was unmistakable.

She stepped inside and pushed the door almost closed behind her. One thin beam of light remained, falling across the bed to show rumpled sheets and a pale strip of white skin. She carefully stepped over scattered clothing and sat on the edge of the bed, then ran a hand lightly over Simon's partly illuminated chest. Even in the dim light, she could see little red marks; she might have done a tad too much with her teeth. She didn't feel a bit bad about it though – these things tended to happen when two people put off bedding each other as long as she and Simon had.

He didn't respond to her touch at all, just laid limp and still like he was trying to show what _dead to the world_ meant. It made her cluck sadly to herself. He shouldn't have to wake up yet. The poor doctor needed a whole lot more rest, but that would have to wait. Business came first.

"Simon. Hey – Simon," she said softly. Too softly. He didn't stir a bit.

She raised her voice. "It's time to wake up, Simon."

That got a mumbled reply: "Can't be."

"Fraid so. We're all landed, and found the clinic your school friend runs. It'll be openin' in a' hour, so we got to get ready."

He didn't reply. She poked at his ribs with a fingertip, but that only got a disapproving groan, so she raised her voice more. "Simon! You got to tell me how to get the thingamajig for the captain!"

She sighed when he rolled away and folded an arm over his head. It wasn't that he didn't care, she reasoned. He was just sleepy. After all, he'd spent two days staying up to study the imager results of the captain's head while they traveled to Highgate, and then his five hours of downtime had been interrupted more than once by some hard sexin'. Any man out there would get worn down by that. So maybe he needed something especially tempting to get him out of bed…

Kaylee smirked as she leaned in close to his ear and whispered, "If you get up right now, I'll make ya pancakes."

After a short delay, Simon rolled his head back to her. He opened one eye to give her a bleary but hopeful look. "Pancakes?"

"Well, if you took pancakes and mixed em till they were mushy goop, and then you sucked out all the flavor and colored em gray, that would be about what I can make for breakfast."

Simon smiled sleepily, and he looked so gorramned cute that she just had to lean further forward and kiss him.

When she pulled back, Simon had both eyes open and was watching her closely. He looked almost awake, but confused.

"We, um… did I dream, or did we…?"

Kaylee felt half tickled that he'd think it a dream, and half concerned that he didn't recall. But she didn't let herself start fretting. She wasn't going to do that unless she had a gorramned good reason. She'd made up her mind about that several times in the past few hours, and she meant it. She'd told him beforehand that this wasn't going to get all complicated and messy, and she'd have to take care it didn't.

So she made herself grin. "Yeah, we did. We did and did… and did."

"Oh."

He wiped at his eyes and gave his head a shake, then dropped back to the pillow. Kaylee felt just a little more temptation to worry over how long it was taking him to sort this out, but she stubbornly refused to give in.

A long minute passed, long enough that she thought Simon might have fallen asleep again, but then he suddenly propped himself up on his elbows and looked straight at her. She recognized the blurriness of his eyes – she knew what it was like to wake after not enough sleep, to feel your tummy sitting heavy like a ceramic weight and your thoughts not able to connect up to your mouth. But Simon's eyes had a heart-warming realness, like being so tired had turned his outsides to glass and she could see all the way into him.

"Is it… is it okay?" he asked.

She knew what he meant, but he looked so serious that she had to play it different. "Well, if you have to ask that, I guess next time I got to be more vocal."

Her words caught him be surprise – he snorted and looked away, and bless his heart if he didn't blush. "Vocal? _More_ vocal? If you get any more vocal, we'll attract an audience."

Kaylee grinned; in truth she was a little relieved that he recalled that much. Simon'd seemed near out of his mind during the act… well, the _acts_… like he was so exhausted and so engrossed that he wasn't even aware of the details. Not that his state had bugged her any; when it came to the important parts, she'd gotten all she wanted out of it. In truth, she'd been like a barrel of gunpowder herself, finally touched by a spark and flashing too hot and bright for rational thought.

Except that she hadn't quite burned herself out. Even now, it wouldn't take much to have her tumbling Simon again, maybe pushing him off this bed right onto the floor where he wouldn't have any covers to hide his fine body under.

"But that's not what I meant," Simon said. "Are _we_ okay? Are you?"

He sat up fully, taking some care to hold the sheets across his lap. His modesty was silly after all the night just passed, but his serious words made Kaylee set her humor and her TNT ideas aside and take another long look at his face. He was definitely awake now, and the machine in his head was doing its thing, just like the rotors and cogs in the engine room, clicking and turning and whirring. Simon was such a smart man, with such a gift in his noggin, but sometimes it worked overtime.

"Doctor Tam, you think too much," she teased. It occurred to her that she'd spent much of the past five hours trying hard not to do the same, but he didn't need to know that. "Can't you just be happy bout it?"

"I just… I thought you didn't want to. I thought –"

It was her turn to feel heat flood her face, and she looked down at her hands. "Oh. I'm sorry bout that. I'm sorry I kept puttin' you off like I did."

"What made you change your mind?" he asked softly, then added as an afterthought, "Is it all right if I ask? I mean… I don't mean to pry…"

He looked downright sheepish. Kaylee smiled; he was still trying to be all proper. "It's all right," she said. "I don't mind. I'd like to tell you all 'bout it. I've had a pile of things on my mind – don't think I've thought so much in my whole life as I have in the past weeks. And it all got so crazy and I wasn't sure what to do…"

She stopped to ponder; she did want to explain, to tell him everything, but where to start? Wasn't easy to sum up, and once she got going, she might not stop for a good long time.

"I think maybe we ought to leave this for later," she told him. "We ain't got a chance now – we got to get that thing to help the captain."

While she'd talked of things being crazy, Simon had started leaning toward her in a way she liked, but now he fell back onto his crumpled pillow. She watched, fascinated. There was a shift in him, like someone had reached into that complicated head and switched a lever. It was in his face; his focus changed as his brain kicked into a different mode. It took his body with it. Never mind that he was still lying bare-chested right in front of her eyes and just as invitingly pretty as he'd ever been – what emanated out of him now just wasn't sexy. His mind was completely focused on his business. Any play she made at him would probably get batted aside in an absent-minded way.

"How long did you say?" he asked.

"Your friend's clinic opens at 8 am, local. It's just bout 7 now."

Simon's eyes flicked side to side, moving across the ceiling though he surely wasn't seeing it. The plans in his head were all he was considering – that's probably how he was so smart, because he could think so deep as this. Kaylee took the chance of combing her fingers up the side of his neck into his hair, and he let her. She liked seeing this. She liked seeing how he worked, and not having to be shy about staring.

"We done all we could to prepare," she told him. "I cleaned up so I can pass as classy, and Jayne's gettin' ready to start with his sellin'. We landed right in the middle of town, close to everything. I was… I was trying to get stuff done, so you could get as much rest as –"

She was interrupted when Simon sat up. She felt his hand on her chin, and looked up to find his eyes right in front of hers.

"Thank you," he said, and then he kissed her. It wasn't a sleeping, half-aware fumble like when she'd given him that first good morning kiss, and it wasn't the heated, desperate tongue-tangling that'd been going on the night before. It was… neat. Tidy.

She was still puzzling over what that could mean when Simon finished, parting from her with his face all bent up in a grin. Maybe it wasn't seductive and heated, but his expression and his kiss still made her glow inside. As did his words.

"I'm really glad," he said. "I'm glad you, you know…"

"Had my evil way?"

"Yes. I'm very glad."

– – –

Borrowed transport, en route to Highgate

"Kaylee?" Zoë asked.

Kaylee started and fought back the smile that had crept, without her knowing, onto her face. "Oh – right," she mumbled, and took a second to chew the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. She wasn't about to go into explanations of all that had passed between her and Simon. Zoë'd figure it out before long, for sure, but that could come later. Best to stick to basic facts at the moment.

"After we left you and Book and the captain on the moon," she said on a firm tone, all business, "Simon got himself some rest. But he woke up in plenty of time to get me all set. Wasn't much to do, I just needed to plan the right words to say to his doctor friend."

"You went by yourself?" Zoë asked.

Kaylee couldn't help but get annoyed at that. Why did everyone think she wasn't able to handle a job? It wasn't even crime. Well, it hadn't started out as crime, anyway.

– – –

Sixty hours ago; Firefly _Serenity_

River interrupted Kaylee and Simon as they finished off their planning. Kaylee wasn't happy about it – Simon was standing right by the stool where she sat, touching her cheek and saying something very sweet about how he wished she didn't have to go and do this all by her lonesome. Kaylee liked that; she liked to know that he didn't want her out of his sight and his reach.

Apparently, River took the suggestion to mean something different. "Kaylee definitely shouldn't be alone," she said as she stepped in through the hatch. "Wash could go, watch over her."

"River, we've been through this, " Simon said as he stepped back from Kaylee. "Wash needs to stay with the ship. No one else can fly it, and we can't just sit here if company security asks questions."

"But I've watched!" River said heatedly. "I can learn a lot by watching. Can learn everything." She leveled a seriously meaningful look at them. "I can do _lots_ of things."

Kaylee was lost as to the girl's meaning, but Simon sighed. "River, you do not know how to fly this ship."

River folded her arms and angled her head in a challenge.

"Well, we won't be finding out anytime soon," Wash said from the common room. He slipped through the hatch and around River. "And sorry, River, but now that I know you're interested I'll be watching the bridge like a hawk. A protective hawk. A protective hawk who fears for its life. If Mal comes to and finds his ship's been wrecked… well, you do the math."

River dropped her eyes. "No math needed," she mumbled testily. "Wouldn't wreck anything… "

"Sorry, Kaylee," Wash went on. "You'll have to go it alone."

He did look genuinely sorry, but Kaylee only found it insulting. She was about to say a word or two about how people need to have a little faith in her, but then River piped up again. "I'll go!"

Now Kaylee couldn't hold back her impatience. "Criminy yesu! I don't need anyone with me!"

"But I can help!" River pled. "I can do… intel. You know – information that no one else can see." She wiggled her eyebrows in a suggestive way that Kaylee might have found funny, but at the moment she was too bothered. She hopped off her stool.

"Would you all just relax? This ain't no big thing. I'll be back in a' hour. Worse thing is if Simon's lady friend wants a lot of money for what we need. That case, we'll just wait for Jayne to get back, and then we'll pay her. See? Easy."

Wash and Jayne looked a little sheepish, but River still stood tall. "But I want to help!" she said. "I _can_ help! I can't just sit here… and do _nothing_. I have skills. Use my skills!"

"You have skills and the face of a fugitive," Simon said firmly. "A very wanted fugitive. You won't be leaving the ship while we're here. At all. Understand?"

River glared for a second, then she was gone, whisking away in a swirl of dark brown hair and powder blue skirt.

Kaylee left the ship a few minutes later, all by herself, and hurried from the landing pad through the small settlement. Actually, it wasn't so very small. It stretched for at least a dozen fair-sized blocks in each direction, larger buildings of businesses near the landing area in the center of town, and rows of little wooden shacks that served as homes further out. The clinic was near the edges too, on the northern side of town.

Kaylee took a slightly uphill route, toward highlands that rose in the distance, their sides green-tinged with tended fields. But the street she walked was dead and dusty. It was an odd mix, and made her wonder why folks had chose to live here.

She reached the clinic at five minutes to eight. It was a tidy building, only one floor and looking as dull and plain as everything else around. Except that it was fairly new, she noticed as she got closer. The walls were solidly built, the siding not a bit chipped or faded. The door was metal and had a few heavy locks on it, but was sitting propped open.

Kaylee went in, and was surprised at what she found.

The place was packed. Folks filled the chairs and the floor, waiting. Families sat in groups, parents holding glum and feverish looking children against them, women running hands over big pregnant bellies, folks of all ages worrying over red and brown stained bandages.

She got in a line at the main counter. It wasn't a comfortable wait; she'd made an effort to look respectable, since this was an old schoolmate of Simon's she'd be meeting with, a doctor trained at the MedAcad on Osirus. But the clothes she'd put on – a brown tank top with only a small edging of lace, a dowdy off-white blouse she hadn't pulled out of her clothes bin in at least a year, and her best pair of black cargo pants – drew curious eyes. Not many folks here dressed in clean clothes. In fact, most of them looked to be covered in white dust. Dust filled the air too. It had a tang, a taste that sat faintly on her tongue, but she was too preoccupied to figure out what it was.

It was twenty minutes before she got her turn at the desk. "Name and ailment," the man behind it asked.

"Uh… I'm Kaylee. I gotta talk to Tori."

The worker raised his eyes and gave her a close look; he was an older man with thin hair, pale pink skin, and glasses that perched on his flared nose. He squinted at her over the frames, deliberately taking in her outfit.

"You know Dr. Zhou?"

Kaylee swallowed down her doubt and stuck her nose right up in the air. "I do. It's important business I got. Someone's life depends on it."

The man wasn't impressed. "You'll have to wait your turn like everybody else."

"But – "

"You see that one there?" He nodded toward a child sitting off behind Kaylee's left shoulder. The boy's cheeks were shadowed and hollow, and the woman clutching him in her arms had something in her eyes that drove right into Kaylee's heart – a mix of grief and dull, unwilling acceptance.

"Is your friend more important?" the man asked.

"I guess… I…" Kaylee wanted to say yes. The captain was more important to her than this boy, but how was she to say that when his mother's eyes were like that? So she took her number and sat.

It was four hours before she was called in. During that time, she stepped outside to make two waves to the ship, just to let them know what was happening. Simon replied with a voice so tight that she knew he didn't like the delay, but what could she do? She couldn't see any choice but wait for her fair turn.

When it finally came, she was taken to an examination room where another painful half hour ticked by. When the door finally opened, it was with a sudden briskness that was a bit confounding after all the empty time that had dragged by so slow. The woman who entered was tiny, with short black hair sticking up all spiky and a brisk air of haste. She glanced at Kaylee once, but didn't hardly focus. She was busy. She had her nose buried in a paper chart, and she scribbled notes on it even as she asked, "What's the problem?"

Kaylee had to give herself a shake to get herself moving at this woman's pace. Simon's words played in her mind: _Be quick – don't waste time time with too many words. You have to win her interest and her trust as quickly as possible. If Tori dismisses you, it'll be hard to win her back. _

"Uh… I ain't the sick one. I need somethin' to fix someone else. Special request, I guess you could say."

The doctor flipped the file in her hands shut. "Well, don't waste my time," she said bluntly. "Out with it."

"I'm sorry I can't give you a whole lot more info, but I need one of them generators to help my friend. One of them good dream things. You know, that one that fits over your head." Kaylee lifted her hands up to demonstrate, though she still wasn't quite sure what this thing was.

The doctor slapped her files down on a counter, then turned to lean her back against it and folded her arms. Kaylee may not have been a reader like River or a trained Companion like Inara, but she wasn't blind. She saw two things – this woman knew exactly what Kaylee meant, and she didn't like being asked about it. She didn't like it so much that when she spoke, she lied.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said in a fake, plasticy tone. "If you have a medical emergency, please tell me. Otherwise – "

"He's losin' his memories," Kaylee said. This wasn't at all Simon's plan; he'd wanted to be secretive. He'd wanted to keep it business: money in trade for hardware, and no story told. But Kaylee didn't have it in her to lie, not in a pinch like this when so much was at risk and the doctor was being all hard to talk to. Weren't doctors supposed to be nice?

"My friend," Kaylee went on, "he's had his head messed up, and the only way we can see to help him is with this cap. I know you used it once. I know you know what I'm sayin'."

Tori's jaw bent sideways, and for a second Kaylee thought back to Simon, to the way his face changed when the wheels in his head got to spinning. Guess it was just how smart people in the Core did their thing. _Must be the schoolin',_ Kaylee thought distantly. _She learned to think the same way as Simon did._

"You're asking for something to play with the human mind. That's not ethical. That goes against the standards of this clinic."

Kaylee had never thought herself a big girl, but she was felt huge and brutish next to this delicate woman. And yet, somehow, she still felt like the weaker one. Maybe it was because of how Tori – Dr. Zhou – stared at her, her eyes smart and sharp. It scared Kaylee, to tell the truth. Maybe that's why she spoke harshly like she did.

"I don't give a good gorramn about ethical!" she blurted out. "I need your help. You want pay? I'll get your pay together. Just tell me how much."

"You think I'm here because I want money?" the doctor asked. "Do you really think I'd be on this world, working with these people, if I was trying to put money in my pocket?"

That flustered Kaylee. "Look – I ain't no expert. But I care about my friend, and as I understand it, if we can just give him good dreams, he might get his memories back. That's all I know. I ain't tryin' to convince you of nothin' else."

"Who told you?"

"Pardon?"

"Who told you I have that kind of mood altering equipment? I'm a respectable practitioner of medicine. I don't deal with anything like what you're describing."

This was not going well at all. Kaylee took a deep breath – for some reason, the lady had gotten defensive, and was unmistakably hostile. That wasn't going to work. Maybe Kaylee just had to be friendlier. She took a deep breath and made herself smile.

"Look, Tori, I ain't tryin' – "

That failed. The doctor straightened and interrupted quickly. "Who told you to call me Tori? I haven't gone by that name since medical school."

Kaylee froze, her mouth hanging open. She might have just made a big mistake.

"Nobody. It's just… I just… 'Tori' is short for 'Victoria' sometimes, so I guessed…"

Under the glare of those black eyes, Kaylee couldn't think of a better thing to say, so she leaned back against the examination table and stared down at her hands. After a few seconds that felt much, much longer, the doctor picked up her files.

"We'll talk later," she said, her voice as firm as if it was an order. "But not here. There's a bar right near the Drop, in the southeast corner of town – it's called the Salty Tongue. I'll meet you after the clinic closes. Eight o'clock."

Kaylee looked up hopefully. "You're gonna help me?"

"I might." Tori moved to the door then paused, and without looking back said, "Bring Simon."

– – –

Borrowed transport, en route to Highgate

"She knew about Simon?" Book asked.

"How'd she know?" Zoë demanded at the same time.

"Look, we're about landed!" Kaylee said, glad of the interruption. She wasn't especially proud of how her visit to Dr. Zhou's clinic had gone, and she'd prefer to hand things off to someone else to tell. Besides, they needed to get the captain to his help as quickly as they could.

Zoë wasn't about to give up. "Kaylee, how did she know? Did she tell anyone?"

"Best we get the captain plugged in," Kaylee said. "Then Simon can fill ya in on the rest."

Zoë's face twisted with impatience, but she had to hold on to beams in the bulkhead behind her as the ship rocked; Wash set them down with less than his usual grace.

"It's not me!" the pilot called out as he shut things down. "I don't know where Jayne got this thing, but –"

"And you'll be explainin' that as well, I take it?" Zoë asked.

"All in good time, dear. Shall we?"

Book looked to the gear. "What about our things?"

"We can come back for it," Wash said as he opened the main hatch. "I've set down right next to our… um, lodgings. See, right here."

Zoë followed her husband, stepping out into the night and taking in a large green building, pink curtains filling the windows. She looked back to Wash, then Kaylee, with something like disapproval on her face. Despite the fact that they'd landed on the back side of the building and she couldn't see the sign over its main entrance, she'd clearly figured out what kind of business this was.

"And you'll be explainin' this too?" she asked.

"Course!" Kaylee said, trying to put a cheery face on the situation.

The captain was looking a little confused, but not at all distressed. "This is excitin'," he said. "I ain't never been off world before. I mean, not that I recall. This is where we're stayin'? Looks nice!" He headed up the walk with a game smile on his face.

Kaylee blew out a quick breath – this was going to be interesting, for sure – and followed with Zoë, Wash, and Book at her heels.

– – –

Translations  
Hú chĕ: Get out

– – –

_Gotta tell you – I have a hard time writing Kaylee and Kaylee/Simon. I'm not like her at all, so sorting her out is lots of work! Comments and criticisms on this and the next few chapters are extra appreciated. _

_And yes - the constant use of flashbacks will end eventually. :) It's a Book 2 thing._


	15. Chapter 15

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

* * *

**Chapter 15.**

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

River was curled up in dark pink satin sheets, her hair making a black swirl above her face.

Simon tilted his head as he looked down at her. Oddly, the sight made him think of a bug burrowed into the petals of a rose. He smiled at his fanciful thoughts; the décor of this house was having an effect on him. Someone had taken the theme a bit too seriously, and the loud colors and plastic flowery decorations that filled the rooms presented something of a challenge to his sensibilities. Still, he supposed, at least the women of the house were trying to bring some cheer into this dull settlement. And Kaylee seemed to enjoy it.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and lightly touched River's shoulder, just to make sure she knew he was beside her.

"Are you sleeping?" he asked softly.

She didn't open her eyes, but her arms tightened around her belly. "Mind tries. Stomach goes sideways. Ick."

Simon couldn't feel too bad for her. "Well… you did earn it."

That got her to open an eye. She stared at him with a certain haughty disapproval that only a very intelligent teenager could achieve. "I had good reason," she said stubbornly.

Simon sighed; he still hadn't had a chance to talk to her about this, and it needed to be done. "I'm sure you thought you did. But River, everyone thinks they have good reasons, and bad things are being done constantly. You of all people should know that. You always have to be ready to look past your reasons to your actions. Do you really think that what you did was right?"

In reply, she rolled to her other side, burying her head in the sheets so all he could see was the fabric of her shirt twisted across her back. Her meaning was clear: this talk wouldn't be happening now.

Simon wasn't going to force it. The captain would be arriving at any minute, Book and Zoë with him, and Zoë wouldn't be looking to settle down to a quiet cup of tea. She'd be wanting explanations. She'd left him in charge, and things were a mess: the ship taken, the five of them staying in this kind of house… But at least he was ready to treat Mal. He'd completed his most important task.

He folded the dark pink comforter over his sister and was rising to his feet when a ruckus arose in the distance. He stepped into the hall to listen; the deep voice of the madam carried above the rest.

"This ain't a gorramn bed and brunch! You best pay up, you wanna take any more a' my rooms tonight!"

The others had arrived then, Simon guessed, and the woman wasn't pleased to have yet more lodgers who weren't partaking of the house's main business. But he stayed where he was; his interference wasn't likely to help with matters. Besides, he heard Jayne's heavy footsteps approaching from the back of the house. Over the past few days, Jayne had taken on the role of principle negotiator and keeper of the finances for _Serenity_'s crew. Ordinarily, Simon would have found this alarming, but it seemed to be working out all right, so far.

A haggling argument between the merc and the madam carried on in the distance, but the rest of the crew scurried into the hall, heading toward Simon. Wash and Kaylee led the way, followed by Book, Mal, and Zoë. As Simon might have expected if he'd thought it through, Zoë took charge without even a hello.

"Malcolm," she said, a name Simon didn't recall her ever using before, "this here's the doctor I told you about. You do as he says."

In all the rush of the past few days, Simon'd nearly forgotten that this would be necessary. But of course, Mal still wouldn't know him. To Simon's relief, Mal looked at him with something closer to curiosity than annoyance, and even, possibly, a bit of humor.

"Heyya, Doc," he said. "Interesting place you set up shop in here."

Simon glanced about the hall, which resembled a sunny meadow full of daisies – as finger painted by a child. "Well, patients like… flowers."

Mal wasn't the only one who frowned at him.

"In here," Simon said, changing the subject quickly and directing Mal into the second of the two rooms rented by _Serenity_'s homeless crew. Mal stepped through the open door and stopped next to the bed inside, his head raised as he took in the bunches of small purple flowers covering the walls. This, apparently, was the lilac room.

The captain turned to smile at Simon and declare expansively, "I feel better already!"

Simon ignored the sarcasm and stepped past him to take the cap – the Takara cap, as it was properly known, named after its developer – from the bedside table. He held it out and ordered in his most doctorly voice, "Put this on your head."

Mal gave the web of silvery wires a close look, then his mouth curved in a grin and he shook his head. "I'm thinkin' maybe not."

Actually, it was a much milder refusal than Simon'd been expecting. He'd known that this would be a battle, and that he'd be needing help to win it.

Book, Wash and Kaylee stayed in the hall, but Zoë saw Simon's need and came right in to speak up firmly. "We talked about this, Malcolm. Your mom trusted me to get you medical help for that bump and set your memory to rights, and this is it."

She met Simon's eye then looked to Mal's head pointedly – the captain had a small bandage on his forehead. Simon frowned as he worked out her meaning; the bruise certainly wasn't something to cause memory loss; it didn't even require medical treatment, but if that was the story Zoë was using he'd follow along.

"Yes, this will take care of that," Simon said. "Heal it."

Mal, however, wasn't sold on the idea. "You're sayin' that this silvery hat's gonna help with a bump on my head? You're saying that coming to a house like this…" He looked around the purple room again, then focused on Zoë and lowered his voice. "You _have_ noticed, right? Them ladies out there wearin' naught but their skivvies, and a room like this… You know what kind'a house we're in?"

Zoë nodded. "I do. You got a problem?"

He shook his head, but his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his coat and he fidgeted. His discomfort was clear. "No. Not at all. I'm just wonderin' how comin' here and puttin' on a funny hat is gonna fix my missin' memories." He glanced at Simon, then leaned into Zoë and lowered his voice even further, like he was trying to be polite. He didn't succeed; Simon could plainly hear his words. "And I'm wondering what kind of doctor this is, exactly. Workin' in a place like this and offerin' a chintzy gadget –"

Simon raised his chin and interrupted. "I was trained at the MedAcad on Osirus," he said with complete confidence. "Top three percent of my class. I specialize in trauma medicine, surgery, mostly, but your condition isn't anything I can't handle."

He held out the cap again, but Mal only stared at it like it might bite him.

Simon drew himself up, taking on a tough doctor air that he'd found useful when a patient wouldn't listen to him. "Have you ever hit your head hard enough to lose memories before?"

Mal looked at the floor and shrugged. "Well… no."

"That's why you've never seen one of these. It's standard procedure in the Core."

Mal shook his head and huffed. "No way. Ain't no way! This is some kind of joke, ain't it? This whole thing." He glanced at the three in the doorway, then at Zoë. "Reg put you all up to this, didn't he?" He raised his voice and looked toward the hall. "Hey – Reggie! Where you hidin'?"

Zoë stood firm. "Ain't a joke at all. Just listen to the doctor."

"Yeah, right. Some doctor. I'm sure you'll all be gettin' a good laugh out'a this." He looked to the crowd in the door again, then to Zoë. The good humor he'd come in with seemed all used up. "And how exactly do you know these folks anyhow? Who are they, takin' an interest in all this?"

To Simon's surprise, Zoë's patience snapped. She lit into Mal like he was an uppity child. "They're a traveling circus, all right? Look, it don't matter how I know them. You're gonna do as the doc says and put the gorramn cap on and I won't be hearing another thing about it. Dŏng ma?"

For a second, Mal's jaw set stubbornly, and Simon began to prepare himself for an escalation in the argument. But then Book spoke up.

"No need to cark, Malcolm," the Shepherd said in a warm, calm voice. "You can trust the doctor. He's a good man and a smart one. Even if his methods may seem… mysterious, he's concerned with nothing but your welfare. He's put some work into setting up your treatment, and it can't have been easy for him."

The words made Mal back down; he even looked a bit sheepish. He took in deep breath, giving Simon a chance to nod his gratitude to Book.

"Sorry, doc," Mal said. "Guess all this has got me wound a bit tight."

"It's understandable," Simon said, and he held out the cap again. Mal finally took it. He turned it in his hands a few times, then gave a _to-hell-with-it_ shrug and flipped his head down to pull the thing over his skull like a wig. When he straightened, a light gaffaw came from the doorway. Mal looked over sharply; Kaylee was standing with a hand over her mouth, her eyes full of apology that she'd let her reaction be heard. Or maybe she was sorry for finding humor in this situation at all. Not that Simon could really blame her. Mal did look quite silly with bits of hair sticking out between the silver wires covering his head, but he didn't seem too bothered about it. In fact, he was quite good-humored.

"Quick, take a capture," he told Kaylee. "I want record o' this."

Kaylee dropped her hand from her mouth, encouraged by Mal's attitude. "And who wouldn't?" she said with a wide smile.

Zoë wasn't amused by the chatting. "Leave him be, Kaylee."

"What? It's cute is all."

"Yeah, real cute," Mal said. "Momma was right about Core folk. You got odd ways of doin' things, even the doctors, I guess. Hey – can I pick up cortex radio with this thing?"

He started picking at the wires behind his ears, but Simon stepped in to stop him. He pushed Mal's hands away and straightened the cap, making sure the nodes connecting the wires made tight contact with Mal's skin, then he tapped the controller panel on the back of Mal's neck. He set it to run the quick initializing sequence, lining up the position of the nodes with the image he'd already uploaded – the high-detail 3D scan of Mal's skull and brain.

"Hey, that's real nice!" a gruff voice called from the doorway. Simon turned back toward it – Jayne had squeezed his way in to get a look, and was grinning at Mal. "Maybe that'll keep all the aliens from talkin' at ya –"

"Jayne," Zoë warned bluntly. "Shăo luō suō."

Mal started turning to get a look at the newcomer and Simon had to set a hand on the back of his head to hold him still. The initial scan was done already, so he keyed in the sequence to start up the cap's cycle.

"Who's that?" Mal asked Zoë without moving his head.

Zoë smiled; this chance was clearly too good for her to pass by. "Every circus needs a bearded lady."

"Hey!" Jayne said in protest.

Mal snorted. "You people are somethin'. I gotta tell my mom about the folks she set me up with, cause she can't possibly… oh… whoa…."

He held out his hands like he'd just gotten dizzy. Simon grabbed one and Zoë the other, and they helped him sit down on the bed. Mal was quick to pull a hand free and raise it to the cap.

"Don't touch it," Simon said, pulling Mal's hand away.

"But... it tickles!"

"Leave it alone," Simon insisted.

"But it's just... it's…" Mal stuttered a bit, then he broke into something like a giggle.

"Is he okay?" Wash asked from the hall in a worried tone. Simon glanced over; Wash, Kaylee, Book, and Jayne were looking on with something like shock on their faces. Even River had left her nest to join the fray; she peeked through the lower part of the doorway with wide eyes.

"The settings are… a little too high maybe," Simon said, then he turned his attention back to the cap's controller. He lowered the intensity, but it didn't take immediate effect. The captain giggled again; this one lasted a bit longer and reached a higher pitch than his first.

"Dope him?" Zoë asked. She looked frightened.

"No," Simon said. "Medicated sleep won't work – he needs to be free to dream. But it'll be taken care of… anytime now..."

Sure enough, the cap's cycle was already bringing on unconsciousness. Mal's eyes quickly grew heavy, and he stretched back on the bed to burrow into the pale purple sheets with a contented smile on his face.

"Ge' the lights, will ya?" he mumbled, then he hugged a pillow and, with one more boyish chuckle, was out.

Simon stood still for a moment, not sure what to do. All in all, that had gone exactly as it should. He just hadn't expected it to be so… odd.

The Shepherd clearly wasn't bothered. "Well, that is a good site to see," he said. He was beaming into the room as if it made his day to watch the captain grinning into his lilac pillow.

"I guess," Wash replied doubtfully. "Although… I would prefer something closer to… sanity."

Zoë gave her husband a short look of rebuke.

"What? You're telling me that _that_ was sane Mal?"

Zoë ignored him. "We done here, Simon?"

"Yes. Nothing to do but wait and see how he is when he wakes."

She nodded. "All right then, it's time we talk."

They all managed to stuff themselves into the pink room where River had spent the day sleeping off her nausea. Simon offered the one chair in the room to Book, who refused. The preacher took a pillow from the bed and settled onto the floor next to Jayne. So Simon took the chair. It seemed proper; he was the one in the hot seat, after all.

Kaylee, quick to forgive a transgression and offer comfort rather than blame, sat at the head of the bed with River curled up beside her, a comforting hand on the girl's back. Wash and Zoë took the other end of the bed. Zoë looked taut and focused, all her attention on Simon, but when her husband's arm curled tightly around her waist, she let Wash pull her back against him. After their days apart, it seemed that the couple was set on staying in physical contact. It made Simon feel a little awkward, and he wondered if he should making some kind of overture to Kaylee. But their affair wasn't known to the crew and it was best not to push it right now. Other things needed to be dealt with.

When Zoë spoke, it was with the kind of firm tone that Simon was dreading. "Doc, tell me you weren't so stupid as to go meet with this lady."

Kaylee spoke up quickly to explain. "I got em caught up as to my first visit to the clinic, and settin' up our meeting with Tori. It's all yours from the Salty Tongue on."

Simon nodded, then he couldn't help but respond defensively to Zoë. "What option did I have? Take the ship to another system? Hope I'd get lucky and just happen on what we need?"

Zoë acquiesced his point with a small nod. "Well, it appears you got the captain cared for, and you ain't locked up. That's something. But I still ain't heard what happened to the ship."

"I'll get to that," Simon said. "First things first."

– – –

Fifty hours ago, Mining colony, Highgate

The walk to the Salty Tongue was quiet; dark had descended on the little mining town, and in the stillness voices would carry. The townsfolk sitting out to enjoy the cool evening air would hear every word, so Simon kept his thoughts to himself.

He wasn't wearing his usual neat clothes, since Kaylee had warned him of the attention that would draw. He had put on one of Mal's shirts, letting it hang over his pants since it was too big on him to even try tucking in. At first, he'd objected to borrowing the captain's clothes, but eventually he'd accepted it as the only option. Wash's and Book's stylings were eye-catching, and Jayne's t-shirts were completely unacceptable, hygienically speaking.

Kaylee had also changed – into something close to her usual workclothes – and she seemed happy about it. Simon glanced at her; she did look better like this. More comfortable, much more herself. She hadn't seemed right before, tidied up and standing stiffly, trying to look like a denizen of the Core. Formality didn't suit her.

She noticed him looking at her and smiled, then reached out to take his hand. At first, her firm, confident grip calmed his nerves, but then he began to feel awkward about it. He'd never been much of a hand-holder. And after what had happened last night….

Simon hadn't expected that, not at all. It seemed a dream to him now, a hazy cloud of sensation and release that continued to escape his efforts at understanding. Making love to Kaylee was something he'd been wanting to do for some time, but now that it'd happened, he just couldn't wrap his mind around it. It defied his attempts of definition, and that was a rare thing.

He'd always considered sex to be a craft, an artform not very unlike medicine in principle. It had defined steps, a process to reach a goal and checkpoints along the way. As with everything he did, Simon meant to excel at love-making, and took pride in his ability to please his partner. He'd always tried to make full use of his classroom knowledge of the workings of the female body, details the average man wouldn't be aware of. Admittedly, he hadn't practiced sex as much as he had surgery, since his studies limited him as far as romance went, but he'd tried to make the most of the chances he'd had, and he was confident in his abilities.

But he hadn't thought about any of that during the night just past. He was surely out of practice, but that wasn't the reason. He'd been exhausted. He'd been nearly out of his mind with tiredness and need, and his acts with Kaylee had lacked any kind of finesse or orchestration.

In fact, he felt more than a little embarrassed about it. That kind of loss of control wasn't like him, and it didn't fit his idea of sex as a form of fine art. Honestly, he was expecting Kaylee to show some sign of disappointment or even ridicule at how he'd acted, but all she did was smile at him and squeeze his hand. Maybe she was trying to encourage him, keep him confident and optimistic so he could carry out this business for Mal. If so, Simon was grateful for her tact. It was kind of her.

He tried to turn his thoughts aside. If he continued to focus on the events of last night, he wouldn't be able to look Kaylee in the eye, much less talk business with her next to him. Both shame and lust seemed ready to overwhelm him; his state was as confusing as it was distracting.

Yes, it was better by far to think about the matter at hand.

They reached the southern edge of town – the Drop, as it was called, and took a left turn to head east. Apparently, a sharp cliff lurked just a few dozen meters to the south, though he could see nothing of it in the dark. All he could feel was a wave of heat coming up from the lowlands beyond. It was unpleasant to be sure, but the upside was that no townspeople passed the late evening hours on this end of town. He could risk conversation.

"How do you think she knew about me?" he asked Kaylee, keeping his voice low.

"I dunno," Kaylee replied. "She's just smart. Or maybe she's like River with all the…" She raised her free hand and wiggled her fingers at her head. "…the knowin' things."

"That's impossible!" Simon said, but then he thought about it. With the way his life had gone in the past few years, he couldn't rule anything out. "I mean – it should be impossible. But after everything thing else I've seen…. Do you really think – "

"No! Of course not!" Kaylee laughed at his confusion and reached across herself to slap his shoulder playfully. "Sorry, I guess I shouldn't play you like that. It was my fault she figured it out. I used her name."

"Her name?"

"She said she ain't gone by 'Tori' since med school. That, and me askin' about the cap, must'a been enough for her to make a guess. And after that, I really should'a played dumb. But when she said to bring you, I just gaped like a little girl." She looked away from him and sighed. "Maybe you was right that I shouldn't'a gone by myself. I just ain't no good at lyin'."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Ain't it?"

Simon didn't answer; they had reached the saloon. They had to circle around and enter from the east side – the south wall was solidly covered in something that shone metallic in the dim light of the distant moons. It may have once have been shiny and smooth, but now it was pitted and marred, as if it'd been beaten by years of debris blowing on the winds. Winds coming up over the Drop, Simon reasoned. The battered sign over the door showed a mouth hanging open, a long tongue hanging out to wrap partly around a frosty pint glass. Simon understood the meaning; the air carried a salty dust which had already coated the inside of his mouth, and a sudsy beverage would be just the thing to break through it.

The inside of the bar wasn't in any better shape than the outside. It was as dark and dusty as one would expect of a saloon in a mining town. The wall to his left, the one backed with the shielding against the winds of the Drop, was one long bar populated by a handful of well-settled regulars and a pair of bored prostitutes. Tables were scattered through the middle of the big room, and booths with waist-high dividers lined the wall on Simon's right. The windows behind the booths were covered over with ragged tar paper, as if to keep the outside world out as much as possible.

"Come on," Kaylee whispered. Simon realized that he'd been standing in the doorway long enough to draw a few curious stares. Not many people were passing their evening in the Salty Tongue Saloon, but the few seemed eager for something – or someone – new to look at.

"There she is," Kaylee added with a nod toward the second booth down where a single person was seated facing them.

It was Tori all right. She'd aged in the three years since he'd seen her, and cut her hair short. She was wearing a rough overcoat that hid all of her body and some of her face from view, but he saw as he drew closer that her dark eyes had grown even more direct in their stare and her face had thinned, losing the softness of her youth. Her dull clothing suited his memory of her. She hadn't ever been as showy and designer as most of the students at MedAcad, preferring coarse clothes made of natural fibers and t-shirts with political messages that earned her more than one enemy amongst the students and staff.

Tori's sense of fashion – well, her intentional lack of popular fashion – had made her stand out at MedAcad. But it was clear that she no longer wanted to be noticeable. Not tonight, anyway. She stayed seated, hunched in the shadows, as they approached.

"Simon," she said softly when he reached the table.

He nodded. "Tori."

He slid into the booth across from her, his back to the door, and Kaylee sat down next to him.

"Hey, Dr. Zhou," Kaylee said cheerfully. Tori gave her a brief nod and returned her attention to Simon.

"How did you know?" he asked. "How did you know I was here?"

"I've always had this feeling you'd come looking for me. You can't have many others you can turn to, not with your situation."

"You know my situation?"

"Nothing in detail. I know you've been bad, Simon Tam, and I know you're hiding."

She said this playfully, almost flirtatiously, and Simon snuck a glance at Kaylee. He hadn't mentioned the nature of his past relationship with Tori because it just hadn't seemed important. Now, given the events of last night, it suddenly was. He hoped he wouldn't end up regretting the omission.

"They asked me about you," Tori said, "about where you might have taken your sister."

Simon put aside the captain's business for a minute – this was worth hearing. "Who asked about me?"

"A few extremely creepy men wearing suits. And gloves. Blue gloves. I was on a purchasing trip to Osiris last year. They showed up at my hotel and demanded that I tell them where you'd gone. I had no idea what they meant. It wasn't until after their visit that I dragged the news out of a few gossips." She narrowed her eyes at him in accusation. "Did you really kidnap your sister?"

Simon tensed. Tori should know him better than that. "Of course not."

Kaylee piped up, asking Tori, "But why they'd ask _you_?"

Tori seemed to resent the intrusion on her conversation with Simon. Her eyes moved to Kaylee slowly, as if it was work. "The same reason Simon trusts me enough to show up asking for my help. It's no secret that I don't think much of the central government, not like he used to." Her eyes shifted back to Simon. "And I do hope you plan on explaining to me what happened to change your mind, make you go from card-carrying member to wanted fugitive."

"It's not relevant to the business at hand," Simon replied softly.

"Also," Tori went on, glancing at Kaylee again, "it's public knowledge that we were involved at one time, and classmates for a few years after. It's not unreasonable to suppose that I'd abet him in his lifestyle change."

Simon kept his eyes down on the table but he felt Kaylee stiffen beside him. He knew she was looking at him, her eyes asking: _and you were going to share this… when? _

"What did you tell them about me?" he asked Tori.

"The truth. That we were classmates and not much more. Maybe we dated for a while, but I dumped you because you were too conservative, too _safe_–" She stressed the word with some humor in her voice; clearly, she was well aware of the irony. "–and that if they really thought Simon Tam would turn outlaw and kidnap his little sister, they couldn't be very good at their job. I guess they were right and I was wrong, hmm?"

Simon couldn't help but smile; she may have been admitting a mistake, but her tone was the opposite. She may as well come right out with those four lovely words: _I told you so. _

"Yes, you used to go on with your conspiracy theories," he said. "Crimes done by secret branches of our government that we never hear of. I thought you were crazy."

Tori turned her black eyes on Kaylee, and it made Simon nervous. He felt in trouble enough already; he didn't need Tori's forthrightness, which appeared to have increased over the years, to dig a deeper hole for him.

"What I wanted to talk to you about – " he started, but Tori interrupted him.

"You seem a friendly, social type of girl," she said frankly, staring at Kaylee.

A hesitant smile slowly warmed Kaylee's face. It was her nature to take the statement as a compliment, although Simon didn't think it was meant in quite that way. "Could say that," she replied.

"Then why don't you go charm those men at the bar. I need Simon to myself."

Kaylee's smile disappeared. She glanced at the bar, then at Simon.

"It's all right," he said. _It's only business,_ he wanted to add, but he didn't. She had to know that, didn't she? But when she nodded and slid out of the booth, her movements were timid and stiff.

As soon as Kaylee left, Tori waved two fingers at the bartender, who nodded in return and began drawing two mugs of ale from a tap.

"You seem comfortable here," Simon said.

"You're surprised? A spot in a high brow hospital on Osiris never was what I wanted. You know that."

"But I never expected you to…"

"Be able to sacrifice? You thought I would be an activist as long as it was an easy thing to do? Maybe you don't know me so well after all. I applied for the funding as soon as I finished MedAcad, but it took some serious arm-twisting to pull it off." Her voice took on a hard edge and her finger pounded the table. "It took commitment, Simon. The company running these mines doesn't like their system to be interfered with, no matter that it's horrendous. Before I got out here, they had a single mobile care unit that visited each settlement once a month, tops. It'd be laughable if it wasn't such a tragedy, given the conditions these people work in."

Two mugs slapped down on the table, dropped off by the bartender in exchange for a few coins Tori handed him. Simon glanced across the room; Kaylee was sitting stiffly at the bar, her back resolutely to them. Was that a statement of trust, or anger?

"They brew it here," Tori said. He turned back to see her wiping a line of white froth from her upper lip. "The woman who runs this place grows her own barley and hops. The garden plots are north, away from the Drop and all the salt that gets blown up from the Flat. But you have to figure, anyone breathing salt dust all through a twelve hour shift down in that hell will be in need of a decent beer when they come back up."

"The Flat?" Simon asked.

"Haven't you seen it?"

"We came in late last night, and I haven't been off the ship since. I was… I needed sleep."

"The company geologists say this was a nice beach a few million years ago, before the sea dried up. The Flat is what used to be the bottom of it, and now those lovely salts and minerals are all that's left. And you really don't care about any of this, do you?"

Simon's attention had indeed been wandering. "I'm… in a bit of hurry. Someone's depending on me."

"So your girlfriend said. She _is_ your girlfriend?"

He glanced at Kaylee again, who hadn't moved. "She's not my… I'm not sure what she is. It's pretty... new."

"She's a sweet girl, that's what. As wholesome and small-time as they come. I don't know where you found her, but I'm sure she thinks the world of you." She snorted a laugh. "You always were clueless about these things Simon, so I'll give you some advice: clear things up with her. She hasn't twitched a muscle all the time she's been sitting at the bar. Mad as a hen."

Simon finally took a taste of his beer. It wasn't the best ale he'd ever had, not by a long shot, but it was more than he'd have expected of this place. And that wasn't the only unexpected thing – he couldn't believe he was sitting in a dingy bar in a dingy mining town on Highgate, getting romantic advice from Victoria Zhou.

"Could we get to business?" he asked as he set down his mug.

"Ahh, yes. Business. Here's the business, Simon: I make a difference to the people on this world. They travel here from all the other settlements, and the backlog I've got is insane, impossible. I'm trying to bring in more funding so I can open more clinics – if the company doesn't block me. And that's the thing. They don't like me here." She leaned forward across the table and lowered her voice to a careful whisper. "When your girl came in this afternoon asking about… what she did, I wasn't sure if she was a trap, sent by the company."

"Why would they want to –"

Her face turned fierce, and her whisper took on a bit of a hiss. "Because they don't control me, and it makes them crazy! I established my clinic with funds from a Parliamentary earmark, and they can't touch it. I have my own means, for a while at least. I'm independent. I can send back reports, telling exactly what I see here, and the company _hates_ that. They'd love to charge me with smuggling or dealing illicit substances or anything they can come up with, just to get me kicked off this world before something I say catches the attention of the Core public."

She glanced aside, as if afraid she was being overheard, and for a second Simon was tempted to dismiss her passionate words as conspiracy theorist paranoia, something she'd had a bit of in school. But his own experiences of the past few years wouldn't allow him the luxury of ignoring her fears.

He bent forward over the table and spoke just as quietly as she had, though no one in the bar was close enough to overhear. "What I'm asking isn't illegal."

"It's unethical."

"I won't tell."

She tilted her head. "Gee, that's comforting."

"Do you even have what I need?" he asked, still maintaining a careful whisper.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but gave in. "A Takara cap? Yes, I do. If I can find it. It's an old thing. It can probably be made to work, but it would take time. That's time that I don't have."

Simon looked toward the bar again. Kaylee was still sitting on her stool with her back ramrod straight. A beer sat at her elbow, maybe bought by the men sitting a few stools down who were watching her curiously, but she wasn't turning her head to make conversation.

"Kaylee can help," Simon whispered. "She's the ship's mechanic, and very good at what she does."

Tori glanced toward the bar, doubt in her eyes. "Even if she is, I'd have to show her what to do and help her get started. Simon, sick people are sleeping in my clinic's waiting room right now. I can't take a day or two off to hold her hand."

Simon sipped his beer thoughtfully. "Do you have any reason to believe the Alliance is still watching you here? Looking for a connection with me?"

She shook her head. "I've never seen them – and I do pay attention."

"Okay. So you work with Kaylee and I'll see to your patients."

It seemed an obvious solution to him, but Tori clearly wasn't expecting it. She straightened and blinked in surprise. "If a fugitive was identified in my clinic…"

"I'll disguise myself."

"Like you are now? Come on, Simon. That haircut screams _Core-world doctor_."

"I'll wear a hat. Just for one day – who's to know?"

She took a drink of her beer, then leaned against the booth back and sized him up. "Are you sure you can handle it?" she asked in a soft voice, giving up the whisper. "This isn't MedAcad or AMI. I've got the best equipment money can buy, but the patients are… well, they bring their favorite good luck charms along and try to convince me that their variant angina is controlled by the second moon's phase."

Simon thought back to the hill people on Jiangyin. "I've gotten used to that kind of thing," he said with a wry smile. "I've been on the Rim for a while now."

She smiled and relaxed further into her seat. "You must have had an interesting few years. Are you going to tell me about it?"

Simon's humor faded. "No," he replied firmly.

That made Tori's smile disappear. She looked toward Kaylee again.

"Mechanic?"

Simon nodded.

"And you think she can handle this?"

"Of course she can," Simon replied quickly. Then it occurred to him that Tori's question might have had more then one meaning, but it was too late to ask. She pushed her unfinished beer away and slid partway out of the booth.

"I'll see you both at the clinic tomorrow morning at seven. I'll need time to show you around before we open. Eat a big breakfast before you come; you won't have time for a break until lunch, and that'll be brief."

Simon and Kaylee walked in silence once they left the bar. Simon wasn't sure where to start, and Kaylee seemed intent on not asking. She didn't try to hold his hand.

He took in a deep breath and decided to take Tori's advice. "I just… I didn't think it was important to tell you," he said. "It wasn't, really, until last night. And today I never had a chance …."

Kaylee gave him a questioning look, like she had no idea what he meant. He couldn't believe that. She had to be wondering, no matter that her face was blank.

"Look, Tori and I only dated for a few weeks. It was during my first year. A friend set us up and, yes, she was the one who broke it off. But it was clear that it wouldn't work. We couldn't have been more different. I did see her a lot for a few years after that…" Simon caught himself – that hadn't come out right. "I mean, I saw her around, not _saw_ saw her, not like dating. We had classes together, labs and study groups. It was clear that she didn't like me much, and I… honestly, I found her a little annoying. And not very good at surgery. She's brilliant as far as classwork and incredibly driven, but she just didn't _get_ surgery."

Kaylee interrupted him coolly. "Simon, you're ramblin'."

"Oh – am I? I'm sorry. I just… I want you to know that what happened between me and Tori is in the past. It isn't important at all."

"Course it ain't important," Kaylee replied, finally with some expression in her voice. She sounded nothing but amused, and she tossed her head back to smile at him.

Simon found her reaction confusing. "Are you sure?"

"I told you last night – this ain't gonna get complicated. Got no need for it."

She took his hand again as if to prove it, but his time her grip was loose and hesitant, allowing him to pull away if he chose. He tightened his grip; that earned him another smile.

"You do think too much," she said. "We had fun. I'm up to havin' more fun if you are. Don't mean nothin' but that."

Simon looked at her closely; she seemed sincere and untroubled. And it did make sense. It'd been clear to him for some time that Kaylee had a different view of sex than he did, a much freer one. Still, he couldn't make himself take her completely at her word. He'd learned the hard way that the things women said often had more meanings than he could see.

"I wonder if Jayne's back yet," she mused. "With platinum linin' his pockets and all."

"Oh – well, we may not need it," Simon replied.

"How's that?"

For the rest of the walk, Simon explained the deal he'd made with Tori. Kaylee's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but she only smiled when he finished. "That's good," she said. "I'll be glad to do somethin' to help the captain, make some use of myself."

When they got to the ship, they went straight to the galley to check in with everyone else. "Everyone else" turned out to be only Wash and River; Jayne was still out doing his job as a salesman. Since Simon had been effectively absent for most of the day as well – he'd done little but catch up on missed sleep – River had been Wash's sole company for several hours now. This had apparently had an effect on the pilot; he jumped up and offered lukewarm leftovers of rice soup as soon as Simon and Kaylee came in. The pilot was clearly eager for new company at the dinner table

River was less willing to socialize. She turned away from the remains of her own soup to sit sideways in her chair while Simon told of his meeting with Tori. Simon watched his sister as he spoke; she was restless, and kept turning side to side and uncrossing and recrossing her feet, like she wanted to jump up and start dancing like a fiend.

"Tomorrow, then?" she asked as soon as he finished telling the news. "Done tomorrow?"

"I hope so," Simon replied.

River looked down at her hands. "Hurry," she said in a small voice. "Have to hurry. Time is precious."

"Of course, honey…" Kaylee said. She reached out to touch River's arm, but River was up already. She rushed out the aft hatch with her head down and her hands clenched at her sides, disappearing toward the dormitories.

Wash was called away not much later by the comm system, an unusually complicated pattern of chirps. The pilot perked up as soon as he heard it. "That's Zoë!" he said, then he shook his head. "She's not supposed to wave…" He hurried out the fore hatch.

Which left Simon and Kaylee alone, sitting next to each other at the table, half empty soup bowls in front of them. It might have been awkward, but Simon was too busy watching after Wash, waiting to hear if some emergency had prompted Zoë's wave.

The minutes ticked by and the pilot didn't return. It must have been just a check-in call, Simon figured, a need to chat. His attention returned to the room, to Kaylee, who was staring at the far wall with a blank face, and awkwardness descended.

Simon cleared his throat and pushed his soup back. "Um… we'll have to be up early tomorrow," he said. "It's been a few long days for you. You must be tired."

Kaylee shrugged, then turned to look at him. "Ain't a big deal. I been without sleep before. How bout you? You catch up on your z's today?"

"Yes. I napped… for most of the day, actually."

Her eyes held his as she asked, "So you ain't tired now?"

Simon wasn't sure if that question had more meaning than the obvious, so he looked away and shrugged, unwilling to commit either way. He couldn't deny that he'd welcome a second chance with Kaylee, a repeat of last night with a bit more awareness and control on his own part, but he'd understand if she was having second thoughts. The meeting with Tori must have bothered her; he couldn't imagine that it hadn't, no matter what Kaylee said. Anyway, perhaps it wasn't the best time to be carrying on with this. Tomorrow would be an early day and a long one, and likely to add even more stress to the situation. Tori wasn't an easy woman to get along with.

Kaylee, it seemed, suffered from none of Simon's indecision. Despite his lukewarm response, she pushed her chair back and rose so she could step over his knees and slide between him and the table. She settled right onto his lap, straddling and facing him.

"Well, ain't I lucky?" she said. "I got me a doctor who ain't tired."

_There's definitely something to be said for decisiveness_, Simon thought as Kaylee's mouth devoured his. It was a relief to have this issue settled for him, his doubts swept aside by Kaylee's confident mouth and hands and the press of her thighs against the outside of his.

Just like he had last night, he reveled in giving in to her, to not having to reason things out. Kaylee wanted to do it – who was he to argue? As for this happening here, in the dining room… it made him feel like a teenager, making out carelessly where they might get caught. In his former life, this was something that only the "bad" kids would risk, and it was certainly nothing he'd have ever done himself. Oddly, he found that he liked it. He liked it a lot, until Kaylee reached down and started opening his pants.

Simon gasped and pulled away from her kiss. "No…. Not here!"

Kaylee only grinned at him. "Why not?"

"_Why not?_ Are you serious? What about Wash?" He tried to gently push her hands away. She took it as a game.

"Busy. Talkin' to his wife. Now let me just – "

He didn't let her; he held his pants tightly closed. "Jayne could come back!"

She gave up and leaned forward to nibble his ear; her breath tickled him as she laughed. "Seein' something like what I got in mind would probably make Jayne's day."

He didn't think she was serious (he certainly hoped not), but still Simon didn't find her words near as humorous as she did. In fact, it completely horrified him, enough to mar his enjoyment of her teeth working his earlobe. He battled to control his body's reaction, to inject some sense into this situation.

"Are you… are you insane? This is not… this is definitely not something I want to share with _Jayne_."

Kaylee pulled back again. "Oh come on. It ain't like you're the one needin' to get nekkid to make it work." She put her a hand to her own belt as to make it clear what she meant, and, despite himself, the picture that came to Simon's mind had an immediate effect on his body.

Still, he caught her wrist to stop her. He felt like a killjoy, the boring, controlled one as he'd so often been in his life, but he knew his own limits. Kissing was one thing, but he wasn't about to have sex at the dining room table.

"We can't," he said firmly.

"But don't you wanna?" she asked. She slid her free hand down his stomach, but he caught that too. He knew what she was out to do – answer her own question. She got to him anyway. She pressed her body flush against his and slid her hips forward.

"Hmm, Doctor Tam. I thinkin' if you say you don't wanna, I got proof the other way."

He couldn't deny it, and he couldn't refuse another heated kiss. His body was certainly happy with this stage of things, the kissing and the touching and the… rubbing. The imagining what could come next if Kaylee had her way. He liked all of that, liked how it made him feel light-headed and out of control.

But actually doing it? Actually carrying through with this? Good lord, what if River walked in?

The thought broke through Simon's lust like a dull blade. Only a few days ago he'd been telling River that sex was something personal, something special. It wasn't to be done lightly. What if his sister saw him here, mostly clothed, rutting away at the dining room table like some mindless slave to his hormones?

"Simon?" Kaylee asked. Her voice was serious now, and she pulled back from a kiss that he realized he hadn't been returning at all. "Simon, you okay?"

He met her eyes and saw genuine worry; the change in his mental state hadn't passed her notice.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just… not here, all right?"

She nodded earnestly and rubbed a hand on his arm gently, like she was comforting him. "I'm sorry. I was just playin'. I didn't mean to push you. We can go to my bunk – it's plenty private."

"It's okay. Give me a minute. You know…" He nodded vaguely down toward his lap.

Kaylee smiled and laid a hand on his cheek. "Simon. Ain't no one gonna see. And even if they did, that ain't a thing to be embarrassed over."

"Kaylee… I just…" _I don't have sex like this!_ he thought, but he didn't know how to say it without sounding judgmental. _I use a bedroom. I don't announce it. I don't show off. I don't share the details with the crew, with my sister…_

_Oh, shè jì shàng. River's a reader. _

"Come on," Kaylee said. She climbed off his lap but kept ahold of his hand to pull him after her.

_What if right now she's aware, she's…_

He couldn't even think of it; even the possibility made him sick. His sex life should be private. His sex life _had_ to be private – especially from his own sister.

His mood was pretty much ruined, but Kaylee pulled him toward her bunk and he followed. What else could he do? How could he refuse her without it being an insult?

– – –

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

"So?" Zoë asked.

Simon cleared his throat. "So Tori agreed to give us the Takara cap," he explained, "if I'd see her patients and Kaylee would help with putting the thing together. We got back to the ship that night, and Jayne wasn't back yet. We went to bed. It was going to be an early morning at the clinic."

He raised his eyes to Zoë. No doubt, she saw right through him.

"And how'd that go?"

That was an alarming question. "Uh – what?"

"Working with this Tori woman. How'd that go?"

Simon blew out a quick breath and wiped a hand over his face. He met Kaylee's eyes and she smiled at him. He'd managed, that night. He hadn't recaptured the abandon he'd initially felt at the dining room table, but he'd managed. Maybe he'd even done all right, in the end. He'd had his knowledge to fall back on, after all. His education and expertise.

"I was the one to work with Tori," Kaylee said, speaking up into the silence. "Maybe I ought'a tell about it."

Simon felt nothing but gratitude when Zoë's focus shifted. He had time to recollect himself while Kaylee told of the second of three days that _Serenity_'s crew had passed on Highgate.

– – –

Translations  
dŏng ma: understand?  
Shăo luō suō: shut up  
shè jì shàng: gods above

– – –

_Yes, more Simon and Kaylee – with another chapter and a half of them before this book ends. Made my S/K loving beta reader very happy LOL!_


	16. Chapter 16

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

_Sorry – work was insanely busy yesterday, and I wasn't able to post. I'll keep on schedule with Chapter 17 tomorrow._

* * *

**Chapter 16.**

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

Zoë fiddled her thumbs as she sat on the end of the dark pink bed, but her impatience didn't have the chance to build to any kind of breaking point. Which was a good thing – she had no wish to lash out at the doctor. He'd been under a pile of stress, and he'd come through where it counted, though it'd taken him more time than she'd have liked. The captain was getting his help, and Simon'd earned this chance to tell of his trials.

More than that, he wasn't taking long to do the telling. No, it was clear to Zoë that he was rushing, leaving out a pile of details. Kaylee'd done the same. The doctor and the mechanic were sitting across the small room from each other, Simon in the chair against the far wall, Kaylee at the head of the bed with River curled up beside her, but Zoë could see that something was up between them. The basic gist of it was clear enough from the looks they shared, but she couldn't see the full path of twists and turns. She wasn't too concerned with it; what they'd been up to in bed wasn't relevant to the task at hand: getting _Serenity_ back. But Zoë did want to hear more about this lady doctor. Something in how these two avoided talking about the woman in any detail made her uneasy.

She shifted in Wash's arms to change her focus to Kaylee. The girl was draped over a pile of rose-colored pillows, looking as loose as a well-cooked strand of spaghetti. She'd gotten herself comfortable while she watched Simon recount the meeting at the Salty Tongue saloon.

"All right then, Kaylee," Zoë said. "So you worked with the doctor lady. How was it?"

Kaylee lifted her head and sat up, and her brow pinched in a sudden frown.

– – –

35 Hours ago, Highgate colony medical clinic

The morning started with a long, uncomfortable hour for Kaylee. She sat in a small lab in the back of the clinic and twisted a dark blue knitted cap in her hands. Simon had insisted on wearing it, like it was necessary to disguise him. Kaylee had told him how silly it looked, but he hadn't given in. Not until he got to the clinic and Doctor Zhou had given him one look and laughed out loud.

"That's worse than your haircut, Simon," Tori'd said, and Simon had pulled the hat off and handed to Kaylee sheepishly. It seemed that the lady doctor's opinion held some weight with him.

Now, Kaylee had nothing to do but wait while Tori showed Simon the ropes. Every now and then, she caught glimpses of the two passing down the hall, or heard bits of conversation as Tori explained this and that important detail of the clinic's workings. Simon mostly nodded in return, serious and tight-lipped, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. A few times Kaylee heard him ask some short and to-the-point question that she barely understood, and every time Tori's steady voice went on with a long, detailed reply.

After a half hour, a few people showed up to work in the lab, running vials of blood and other more mysterious fluids through med equipment that purred smoothly. Kaylee didn't know what a single of these machines were, but every one of them glinted and shone, their perfectly clean outer shells proclaiming proudly that they were as new and fancy as any hospital in the verse could want. They spat out reports that the workers noted and slipped into color coded envelopes.

Kaylee felt a bit out of place here. It wasn't anything like _Serenity_'s engine room or her Pa's workshop back home. She started asking a few questions of the workers, but they seemed too busy to be bothered and set on ignoring her.

Finally, the clinic opened for the day, and the patients started coming back one by one to have their troubles seen to. The workers moved up front to aid Simon in his business and Tori came back into the lab, clearing one corner of a counter for Kaylee to use.

The doctor brought out all kinds of electrical tools; a few were common and familiar to Kaylee, but a larger number she'd never seen in her life. She had no choice but to ask, and Tori sighed as she explained the purpose and usage of each. She might as well have come out and said what was on her face – _this girl's an ignorant fool and I should just do this myself. _But she did take the time to explain, and though her loud, forced tone was grating, Kaylee had to admit that the woman explained well. She may not have been friendly, but she knew her stuff.

After a bit, she brought in a bag from her office and pulled out the Takara cap. Kaylee had to fight back a silly urge to put the thing on and go hunting for a mirror, because it looked to be a headdress from a picture book of old Earth-That-Was. Some kind of chain mail, though this was too delicate to turn aside any blow. More decorative and ceremonial than meant for real use, maybe. Fine silver wires connected into a grid of oval nodes, and an edging of thicker silver lines held it together, forming a circle that would edge the wearer's forehead, wrap behind the ears, and come together at the nape of the neck. The controlboard sat back there, a thin rectangle of circuitry etched onto a flexible bit of plasticized silicon waferboard. It would bend to the wearer's neck, and not be itchy or uncomfortable to wear while sleeping.

All in all, it was a beautiful piece of tech. Not that Kaylee imagined the captain would think so; he was gonna hate like hell wearing this thing.

"I soaked it in solvents last night to remove any rust, but I know several of the connections have broken. You do know how to solder?"

Kaylee couldn't help but bristle at that. "I done it a time or two. Or million, mayhap."

Tori wasn't ruffled. "Good. We'll also need to get into the controlboard, wire it into the computer to test the connections and functionality. Have you worked with circuitry this fine?"

Kaylee shifted uncomfortably as she looked at the flexible panel on the back of cap. A whole bunch of wires twisted through it, tiny things that criss-crossed over and under each other like the pattern of some complicated Core-world dance. "Maybe… not so fine as this… but how hard can it be?"

Tori sighed again, quick and heavy with impatience, then pulled out a set of wires that ran into a controller box setting on the bench. "We'll find out. Here – connect these lines into the controller's i/o. I'll start building the sim. I still have the software I used in MedAcad, but lord knows if it still works on modern systems."

Kaylee turned to the wiring. She had to be shown how to deal with the fine size – a special soldering gun bolted down to the table and used a microscope and controller dials, since a human hand was too shaky for the job of lining the wand up with tiny structures on the board. Kaylee practiced on a bit of scrap metal, then moved on to the real thing.

To her satisfaction, she didn't mess up once. This earned her a look of appreciation from the doctor, and they dug into testing the thing.

The next several hours passed in a blur. Kaylee's experience as a mechanic had mostly involved big things that moved, and if she knew computers, it was only because they controlled the moving engine parts that were her real love. The Takara cap was something new. Though it was in some way a machine with moving parts – electrons buzzing around in the wires and electrical fields pulsing out of the silver mesh, focusing in complex patterns – it all happened invisibly. The only way to see and direct it was on the cortex screen, on the controller sim that displayed the cap's status.

Truthfully, it did confuse her. But once Tori got focused on technical matters, she was a good teacher. It was like she forgot to be snippy, and she was almost easy to work with. The two of them stayed bent over the lab bench, identifying bad connections and soldering them shut, till mid-afternoon. The only thing that broke it up was a sudden loud growl of Kaylee's stomach.

Tori sat back on her stool and rubbed her neck, but she was smiling. "I take that as a suggestion," she said. "I'll grab some sandwiches."

"See if Simon's ate yet," Kaylee said. She didn't mean it as anything but common friendliness, but Tori's smile took on a knowing edge.

"Of course," the doctor replied.

But she returned a moment later all alone. "He ate already," she said. "Didn't want to disturb us." She held out a cup of lemonade and two sandwiches for Kaylee. "Ham and cheese. Simon told me this morning about the food on your ship. I thought you might want to fill up on something decent while you're here."

It was true, and it was a kind offer. Kaylee hadn't had a lunch like this in a while. She said her thanks and set to.

Tori did the same. She had just one sandwich, but amazed Kaylee by chomping it down in a few huge bites, as if fast was the only way she knew how to do anything. She finished in a jiff, then wiped the crumbs she'd spilt off her lab coat before she started fiddling with the cap again.

But she didn't dive back into serious work quite yet. Instead, she asked Kaylee a casual question.

"You like living on a ship?"

Kaylee nodded; her mouth was full.

"Must get boring."

Kaylee shook her head.

"I can't imagine Simon living like that, on a single small ship – and not a very comfortable one, I take it."

Kaylee frowned, but the doctor didn't seem to notice.

"The crew can't be very big."

Kaylee set down her sandwich and started to hold up nine fingers, then changed it to eight because of Inara, then changed it to seven. Best not to include River; though she had no idea what Simon'd told this woman about his sister.

"You and Simon and five others. No, not many at all. And you and he are…?"

Kaylee frowned again, but then took another big bite of sandwich and shrugged. It was none of the doctor's business what she and Simon were.

"You know, I lied last night," Tori said. She was still looking down at the cap, but the corner of her mouth was pulled back in a small smile.

Kaylee squinted at her.

"About me and Simon."

Kaylee stopped chewing and gave the doctor her hardest stare.

Tori laughed. "Nothing so serious. I lied about why I broke up with him. I mean, sure he was square. Completely bound to the system and the rules, but I knew he was just sheltered and young enough to learn better, eventually. That's not what did us in."

Kaylee knew she was being invited to ask, corralled into the conversation like a pig pursued by a bacon-loving farmer. But she couldn't think of a way out. And besides, she had to admit that she wanted to know. She took a swig of lemonade, clearing her mouth enough to speak.

"So, what was it?"

"He was terrible in bed."

Kaylee choked on a last little bit of sandwich, and she had to turn to the lemonade again. She wasn't expecting that!

In any other situation, she'd be eager to hear the details – for her own entertainment and to have some dirt to tease Simon with. It didn't bother her at all that Simon'd had sex before. A good looking man like him must surely have had his share; to Kaylee's view, that was just healthy, happy living. Nor did it bother her that the tumble hadn't been so good for Tori. Actually, Kaylee thought she might have a chuckle over that idea later on, when she had a moment to herself.

But, at the moment, she had no room for humor. Tori was looking down her nose with a superior smile, as if she thought Kaylee was too dumb and too low class to know good sex from bad, and that was grating. It made Kaylee uncomfortable, and brought a few questions out of the back of her mind, doubts that had been chasing each other around all morning though she'd tried her best to leave them be.

Truth was, her first night with Simon, the night before they got to Highgate, had been something special. That had been a flashbomb to burn right down to her core. But the second night…

Even after she'd taken Simon to her bunk for full privacy, he'd been a whole different man than he was the night before. He'd been quiet and controlled and… and minimal. Boring. Just enough to get the job done, with none of the wild fire that she craved.

She suddenly realized that Tori was watching her closely, and resolved to not let any of her doubts show. She sat up straight on her stool. "Well, then," she said with as smug a look as she could manage, "I guess you weren't makin' use of him the right way, cause I got no complaints."

Tori wasn't offended, but she did look doubtful. "Really?"

Kaylee shoved the end of her last sandwich in her mouth, ready to finish the conversation. "Mm-mmm."

"Then I guess leaving the Core did him good. Loosened him up a bit."

Tori's tone was questioning, like she was hoping for more information, and Kaylee took the time to swallow down her lunch before replying. Whatever game this lady was playing, whatever was in her head as regards to Simon, Kaylee was going to stay out of it. In the end, Tori was doing them a favor, one that might save the captain's life, and Kaylee didn't want to complicate the situation.

Like she'd told Simon: this wasn't going to get messy.

"I think there's lots o' things done Simon good lately," Kaylee finally said. "Gettin' out of the Core was just step one. How's about we get back to work?"

– – –

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

Zoë got only a shrug in reply to her question. "Me and Doctor Zhou spent all day on the cap thingy," Kaylee said. "It needed plenty of care-taking to put it right. Kept us busy, near as busy as Simon with all those patients, I'd say."

Zoë wanted to hear more; her sense that this doctor friend of Simon's had played a larger part in the tale than any of them were letting on was growing.

"And what'd you think of Dr. Zhou?" she asked.

Kaylee shrugged again; her tense body wasn't looking so settled on the pillows anymore. "Seems smart enough. Real good at explainin' things, just like Simon."

Zoë glanced quickly at Simon; Kaylee didn't like this Tori woman, and it had to have something to do with him. Zoë would need to know more about that, but it could wait a minute while she caught up with everyone else.

She looked to Jayne – he was sitting on the floor next to the Shepherd, both men barely fitting into the corner behind with the closed door. "What where you up to all this time? Bring in any money?"

"Nearly fifty platinum," the merc replied with obvious pride. "And that weren't all of it." He smiled and his eyes took on a glazed look.

– – –

32 Hours ago, Murtha's Maiden House, colony E2

For the fifth time in two days, Jayne blessed the powers that be, thanking them that he'd kept his place on _Serenity_ long enough to be given the task he had now.

He'd started it the day before, _Serenity_'s first day on Highgate, with a visit to the House of Huāzhù, because it was just down the street from where the ship had landed. He'd had wares to sell, a product supplied by Badger on a day not long ago, little bits of meat meant to be served to those who frequented whorehouses, kept fresh and ready for consumption in a refrigeration box that Jayne could just fit under his arm and carry off the ship and down the street.

The House of Huāzhù was quite a bit different from the whorehouse he and Wash had gone peddling to on Londinium. No fancy lights here, no stage with a catwalk and dancing pole for the woman of the moment to strut her goods. No, this place was like the Heart of Gold with more colorful décor; it was low on class but high on character and packed full of homely, welcoming comforts. Jayne'd offered a slice of the product, raising the price a bit from what he needed to make a profit for Mal, because who's to know? The women didn't have much in the way of spare coin to throw around, but they scrapped together almost enough, then offered something else to make up the gap.

That'd been the first time Jayne said his thanks, in an upstairs room of the House of Huāzhù with a black-haired vixen astride him.

The second time was a few hours later, after he'd taken his show on the road, flying one of _Serenity_'s shuttles a half-hour west to another colony big enough to boast of its own cathouse. The woman who'd taken care of him there had been as agile and fearless as an acrobat.

The third time had come later that afternoon when he'd been treated to a show by two of another house's ladies. He was getting on in the years, after all, and his personal hardware needed time to regroup. But a sight like this, put away in his head for later reviewing, was nothing to turn down.

Later that night in yet another place, he'd had several whiskeys (on the house) and a tiny sample of his own wares (the drink was to blame) and he'd said his fourth thanks while he took his third lady of the day for a ride. Well, maybe he'd been the one doing the riding that time.

On his second day as a salesmen of seal scrotum, he'd started slow. He'd been a bit hungover and the worse for wear, and tired out downstairs. So his first two sells included as bonuses nothing wilder than breakfast and brunch. But the third house, the one here in colony E2, specialized in bathing. He'd gotten himself a full soak and rubdown before a few ladies had laid him down on his back and swarmed all over him, and now he was saying his fifth thanks in two days as his eyes rolled back in his head –

– – –

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

"That'll be plenty enough, Jayne," Zoë said, cutting that telling off before it could really get started. What she saw in Jayne's grin was all she wanted to know. "All I need to hear bout is the income, not the bonuses. The money?" She held out a hand.

Jayne didn't seem too upset at having to hand over the cash and keep his stories to himself. In fact, he seemed fine to settle back against the rose garden mural on the wall behind him, close his eyes, and relive his experiences in his own private thoughts.

"How 'bout you, Wash?" Zoë asked her husband, turning in his arms so she could look him in the eye. "What was happenin' on the ship?"

– – –

27 Hours ago , Firefly _Serenity_

Wash set up the checkerboard again; it seemed he did that a lot. Games with River didn't last long, and the loser was the one who had to reset.

"What do you suppose Jayne is up to?" he asked. This question was a sign of his desperation. River seemed content to stare at the board, focusing on whatever new stategy was about to once again crush him to bits, but he couldn't take the quietly cutthroat competition any more. He'd use the merc to start conversation if that's all he had.

They'd already spent a full day like this. Even though Simon had been on the ship yesterday while Kaylee first visited the clinic, the doctor had spent the hours napping in the dining room alcove – the poor doc must not have gotten any sleep the few days before. So Wash had been roped into gaming with River. They'd started with Tall Card, moved through wéiqí and cāiquán, and even tried a short stint of two-person charades. The latter hadn't been a success; River guessed Wash's answers before he half got started, and she chose difficult and esoteric things to act out herself. Why anyone would want to mime _semi-quantitative histidine scale_ was beyond him.

So now, in the middle of their second day together, he was desperate for any subject that got her talking. Anything besides how easily she beat him at games.

"Not interested in Jayne," she eventually replied in a flat voice.

"But he didn't even bring the shuttle back last night. Sure, he waved to tell us how much money he was making, but I'm not sure I believe him. And it's pretty important that we make some decent profit off that stuff of Badger's. Things are kind of… up in the air right now."

"Soooo not interested in Jayne," she repeated more firmly. With that, she reached out and slid a checkerpiece across the board with an air of satisfaction, as if this move robbed Wash of all hope of victory. As if there'd been any doubt.

"OK, I guess I'm with you on that," Wash said. Eighty-six that topic.

"I was wrong," she said. She was still studying the board, although it was Wash's move. He looked over the pieces but didn't see many options.

"You were wrong… where?"

"About Jayne."

He shifted a little. Maybe he gave up too soon – this could be interesting. "How so?"

For the first time, she moved her eyes off the board, and her tone changed; she sounded sad. "He's not right for me. I was bored. Bored makes for bad decisions." She sighed, a sound heavy with remorse.

"You thought… you _liked_ Jayne?" Wash started to laugh, but her expression quickly shifted from woeful embarrassment to a threat of horrible violence, so he closed his mouth and sobered his face. He reached out and moved a checker piece at random.

"Could at least try," she said, with a nod at the board.

"Not much point. You're beating me at everything! Now, about Jayne –"

"You must be good at something."

He couldn't resist this change of subject. "Something? I think so. Let me gently remind you, little precocious one, that you and your brother would likely be in one of several possible unpleasant places right now if it weren't for these hands–" He held up the hands in question. "–on the controls of this ship."

River didn't appear to be listening. She stared thoughtfully into the galley while he spoke, but then brightened suddenly and smiled at him. "There _is_ something you're good at!"

"As I was saying – "

"You got Zoë. How did you get Zoë?"

"Get? Zoë?"

"You liked her first, right?"

"How did you know that?"

"Obvious. And she didn't like you. How did you get her?"

"Well… that's hardly… how do you… why are you asking me this?"

River sighed again and looked away from him. "It must be hard is all," she said, her voice thick with heartbreak. "Must be hard to make someone love you back."

"River, you can't _make_ anyone… Wait, you're asking this for a reason, aren't you? You like someone, don't you? But not Jayne…"

She turned sideways in her chair and folded up, hugging her knees to her chest and burying her face against them. But then, barely noticably, she nodded.

Wash brightened – he hadn't expected to tap into something this entertaining. "Who? Who is it? Has to be someone on the ship… Can't be Simon or… is it a boy? A male?"

She nodded again, which he found a little disturbing. Kaylee was the only person on the ship anywhere near River's age and of a suitable temperament. Wash didn't like the male options at all.

"Not Jayne. I doubt it's Book… Oh God. It's not me, is it?"

To his relief, she shook her head.

"Mal?"

She turned just enough so one eye peeked through the mess of her hair.

"You _like_ Mal?"

She raised her head suddenly, flipping her hair back and leaning over the table to glare at him. "I _love_ Mal, and if you tell anyone, I'll… I'll… space all your dinosaurs!"

He leaned back away from her, not doubting that she'd do that if properly provoked. "Easy! I won't tell. And I'm not judging… I'm just… I guess… it's not… unreasonable. Mal is… quite… lovable…"

Her glare darkened.

"OK, fine! I don't like it. Listen River – there are lots and lots of men in the verse. I know you don't get to see them real often, but don't start thinking that the specimens of manliness on this ship are all you have to choose from. If you think like that, then maybe Mal will start looking… like a good option. But there's better, River. There's younger. And more sane."

She shook her head. "Younger doesn't matter. More sane wouldn't like me."

"What? Plenty of sane people like you. That boy Jase liked you."

He scored a point with that; a smile lit her face and and she looked away with a blush.

"I'm just saying – don't pin all your hopes on what you have now, all right? And especially – don't start thinking you can _make_ Mal, or anyone else, feel a certain way about you."

"Didn't you _make_ Zoë like you?"

"No! That's not possible. She chose on her own." He smiled proudly. "Because I'm irresistible."

"But you tried, didn't you?"

"Of course not! Well… " Truthfully, he had to admit to himself that he had tried. He certainly hadn't set out to make a wife of Zoë, but he'd put plenty of effort into getting her to think well of him. And it hadn't been easy. She'd been no soft nut. That woman'd had a shell on her…

"You tried, and it worked," River said firmly.

He shrugged. "It was… special."

"And I'm not special?"

"That's not what I mean." He exhaled, not sure how to explain without digging himself a deeper hole. "I'm not going to win this one, am I?"

"Never do," she said with a suggestive nod at the checkerboard.

He huffed at that, but couldn't think of how to argue. Despite her confidence and her obvious upper hand as far as gaming (and, he had to admit, conversation), she was only a teenager, one who hadn't seen much of life and regular day-to-day human interaction. As smart as she was, she might be incapable of understanding the disappointment she was setting herself up for by fixing her romantic hopes on Mal.

"It could work," River said, but now her certainty sounded forced. "It really could."

Wash only shrugged noncommittally, and she dropped her eyes to look down at her hands. Her forehead crinkled up with either defensiveness or self-doubt; he couldn't tell which. He couldn't read her thoughts, but he did wonder how much of his own she could sense, or if it made any difference. He could easily recall his state of mind when he was her age; he might have had an easier time if he'd listened to advice a little more often than he had, but then again, if he'd given into the naysayers on his homeworld he might still be sweating over a wok under a starless polluted sky.

Much could be said for youthful stubbornness. Wash had to admit that, in the end, the only way he'd learned about life was by living it, hard knocks and all. He couldn't expect things to be any different for River, no matter her abilities and talents.

"Won't tell, right?" she asked, and her eyes raised to his again. "Fodder for taunting. Taunting can be developmentally detrimental. I'm delicate."

Her directness and sincerity made him smile, but he understood her meaning. Jayne could do much with this information, and it wouldn't be pretty.

"No. No, I won't tell. Just don't do anything stupid, all right?"

A slow smile spread across her face, and she nodded. "Agreed. Nothing stupid."

– – –

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

Zoë was a bit surprised when Wash hesitated, looking to River before he answered his wife's simple question. Whatever he was thinking, Zoë couldn't read it, and River gave nothing away. The girl was still lying on her side next to Kaylee, staring at her toes. She had stretched out a leg so that her foot was right in front of her nose.

"We played checkers," Wash finally said. "She beat me."

River smiled at her ankle.

For some reason, Wash's words made Jayne turn from dreamy to belligerent. "Maybe if you'd a'opened your eyes, paid attention to a few things with our little headcase here, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

"Wait – it's my fault now?" Wash replied. "OK, so she seemed bothered by… things. River's always bothered by things. How was I supposed to know what she was planning?"

Zoë turned to the girl, who folded her leg back under her and huddled up in a ball, as if she hoped to disappear into the bedding.

"River," Zoë said. "What'd you do?"

– – –

25 Hours ago , Firefly _Serenity_

Talking with Wash wasn't comforting, not as much as River'd hoped.

She'd been wanting to share this with someone, anyone, forever. Well, since the day she'd realized who she loved, and that had been forever ago. It felt like forever ago, anyway. Time passed slow and heavy to a soul who pined as River did. Her soul was in danger of pining away to nothing, destroyed by an aching heart, alone with no one to talk to.

Kaylee had been River's first choice as confidante, but the mechanic had been busy with her own thoughts. And now she was busy with Simon. River couldn't be bitter about that, and wouldn't let herself interfere – it was something to bring her hope. If Kaylee could win Simon, and Wash could win Zoë, River could win Mal.

A chime sounded from the cockpit, pulling her attention away from yet another one-sided game: she and Wash had returned to cards. A pattern of beeps identified the source of the call, and a wave of eagerness rolled through Wash, a mix and joy and worry and love that focused on an image of Zoë in his mind. River was fine to let him go have his talk in private; she was done with him. The games had grown old. He went to the bridge, and she went to the cargo bay.

_Someone younger? Someone saner? _

She didn't need either of those. Mal was a perfect match for her, if only he'd realize. If only he was able to see her, all of her, from the skin outside to the pure heart inside. Lithe muscle and strong sinew in between.

"I am _no_ little girl," she firmly told the empty bay. From where she stood, a bit to the starboard side facing the main doors, faint shreads of a memory came to her. It wasn't clear, very little from the past four years of her life was clear. Her first few months on this ship had been especially cloudy, as Simon put different medicines in her veins. It wasn't until he studied the scans taken on Ariel, until he had time to settle on a proper course of medication and she had time to adjust, that her memories began to write themselves in their proper order and with some semblance of clarity.

This particular memory was from the time before things began making sense. It was strange, more of a dream than real, but she knew it'd happened. She recalled it now, and let herself relive it, this time with some awareness of what she was doing. She crouched against the bulkhead, imagining Kaylee beside her, then took a single glance at the Bad Men before spinning out from behind the beam.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The recoil of the gun traveled up her arm and three invaders were down. Kaylee was safe. The internal verse of this ship was safe. Simon would be able to bring the captain back and fix him.

"If only Mal'd seen that," she said to herself. "If only he knew…"

And she could do more. What if it was the Alliance next time, members of the same army who'd defeated Mal and Zoë, driven by another misguided plan to save some by trodding on others, deciding that they must take away his ship? River would beat them back too.

She imagined the soldiers of the Alliance creeping down the walls like black spiders, tip-toeing through the bay doors, with herself as the only line of defense. She turned and kicked and punched; it was like dancing, but somehow more pure. It wasn't about looking pretty, it wasn't about making an audience like her. It was about winning. It was a game. It was a game she had learned without knowing it; they had programmed it into her brain and imprinted it onto her body.

River suddenly froze mid-spin: people were coming. Three people.

She moved quickly and silently, running to the fore end of the bay and pressing herself against the slanted bulkhead next to the entry. They were coming from outside, returning from their long day of work: Simon with his mind full of every patient he'd seen, medications given, tests ordered, future treatments recommended. The different levels of his thought were galloping wildly, checking again, over and over, that he hadn't missed something. It was his way of doing his job as close to perfect as possible. It consumed him, replacing other worries that simmered underneath. Simmered too deep for River to see.

Kaylee was full of thoughts too. She was excited over new tech and progress made and fresh understanding of how the Takara cap worked, but the events of her day didn't consume her like it did Simon. Kaylee's doubts refused to sit back and hide. River could see: underneath the mechanic's sense of accomplishment was a shyness, a fear of the smart, pretty, educated stranger who walked between her and Simon. Worry about Simon too, of what exactly was going on in his head.

The stranger was a woman. A very smart and confident and driven woman. She looked up at the Firefly and murmured a few smooth but insincere compliments.

River decided that she didn't like this woman.

Kaylee opened the hatch, but the three stood outside a minute, discussing the day and plans for tomorrow.

"Tori, how long do you think it'll take to finish?" Simon asked.

"We need at least the morning to complete the diagnostics –" Tori started, but Kaylee interrupted.

"But… I thought we got through that. I mean, we ran that one thing, and…" Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

"No," the woman replied shortly. "It's not enough to have the connections in place, we have to make sure we have fine enough control over the settings, and then test the auto-positioning and feedback. Simon, bring the imager data for your captain. We can spend the afternoon tomorrow tailoring the system for his skull geometry. I have software which can set up the initiation sequence..."

"But I thought…I thought we could do that here, in the infirmary…" Kaylee started, but doubt clouded her again and she stopped.

River's eyes narrowed – how could Kaylee think that anyone knew more than her? Just because she didn't use all the big words, didn't mean she couldn't understand what was happening.

"Kaylee, you're not seeing the full complexity of the system," Tori said, her condescension partly masked by a friendly tone. River heard right through it, and couldn't believe her brother didn't.

"But we'll finish tomorrow, right?" Simon asked.

"There's a small chance," Tori replied, "but it's more likely to take another day."

"You have to try to finish tomorrow," Simon said. "There must be some way. We've been here two days already…"

"We'll do our best. Won't we, Kaylee?"

Kaylee's answer was faint and a bit petulant. "Course."

"All right, then. Sleep well."

Simon and Kaylee said goodnight and stepped into the ship as Tori left. River shrank back into the shadows, not wanting to be seen as the two of them closed the hatch and passed by. She needed time to think. She needed to make a decision.

Here was the thing: River knew that she was special. She could see things no one else could see. What she saw now was that Tori was lying. The cap could be made ready in a few hours, just as Kaylee suspected. It could even be fixed up right on this ship, though that would take longer than using the facilities in the clinic. The lady doctor knew all that, and she'd come right out and lied, because she didn't want Simon to leave.

This made River very, very angry.

Here was a second thing: River knew that she could do things no one else could do. She had power. She wasn't helpless. She wasn't a helpless little girl anymore, locked up in a prison with no understanding of what was happening and no chance to make things right. She was grown-up, in charge of herself, and she knew what needed to be done. She'd read it all clear and easy and simple from the mind of the woman doctor.

And River could do it; she knew she could. It would take no time at all. She could take care of things, and then they could leave, go to help the captain tonight before the lying doctor caused more delays.

But explaining to everyone else, convincing them, would take time. They wouldn't believe River. Even if they did, they wouldn't let her go. Simon would never let her do this. Really, she had no choice but to take the decision in her own hands like any grown-up would. Make the choice and follow through.

She had power; that meant she had responsibility. It couldn't be shirked.

She waited until Simon and Kaylee disappeared in the crew quarters, then quietly pushed open the hatch in the bay doors and slipped out into the night.

– – –

Translations  
wéi qí: the game of Go  
cāi quán: a finger-guessing game  
huāzhù: style, as in female organ of flower

– – –

_Comment freely. :)_


	17. Chapter 17

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

_The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money._

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

_Sorry, with the holiday, I forgot that yesterday was Friday. But I'm still on schedule - this book will end on Friday with chapter 20._

**

* * *

**

Chapter 17.

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

River pulled her knees into her chest, making herself into a tiny ball.

"What the hell did you do?" Zoë repeated, her voice low and full of accusation.

River didn't want to answer the question. She felt sick. Maybe it was a trace of chemicals still souring her insides, or maybe it was the memory of flesh bruised by a hard blow, of bone hitting stone tile and rebounding, damage done in only a fraction of a second and not to be undone without weeks, maybe months, of painful healing.

Or maybe it was knowing that she'd been set on this path years ago, when she'd told a man that she wanted to go home and he'd said no. Not that he'd actually come right out and denied her so cleanly as that – they never were straight-forward at the Academy. He'd merely redirected her attention with a question, not allowing her any chance to argue, to reason out that it was wrong, that what they were doing to her was wrong and she had a right to tell them firmly and with no doubt: _No. No. No! You can't do this to me!_

They'd reeled her in so very carefully; she saw that now. Bit by bit, only pushing as hard as she'd accept, letting her blindness to the possibility of the Academy's reality keep her silent until her confusion and decay were too much to overcome. By then, the only way she could complain, could make herself heard, was with the sharp end of a pencil.

"I hurt someone."

She breathed the words into the pink blanket under her cheek; she whispered them so softly that no one in this tiny floral brothel room could hear, though they were staring at her and waiting for an explanation she hadn't yet given. She'd had no chance: the nausea still twisted her stomach and her mind was clouded and confused. Many complications were involved, and she had much to consider.

It hadn't bothered her to hurt that man at the Academy, the one who wouldn't allow her to leave. Things like that were what they taught her. Things like that were the only way she stayed at all sane, logical and aware enough to write her letters to Simon. Things like that had kept her from falling into complete madness, losing herself as sure as if the girl River Tam had been crushed to little nonfunctioning scraps and someone – some_thing_ – new had crawled into her head to walk around in her skin.

But she wasn't that. She wasn't whatever they'd tried to make of her. What had happened last night was completely different, outside the realm of the Academy's lessons. Doing harm to preserve her own life, her own sanity, was okay. That was the law of the jungle, the law of life. And doing harm to preserve one's mate… that was okay too. Wasn't it?

So why did she feel so sick?

– – –

23 hours ago, Highgate colony

The door to the clinic was locked, but there were people inside.

River could feel them. Like a lioness smelling her prey on the wind, she knew they were in the low, dark building. She could feel their exhaustion and pain as well as their patience; they accepted that waiting overnight was simply a necessity of life. If they wanted help in their illness, they had to suffer for it. That was their lot.

And she felt another inside the building – a man. A healthy man on the job, a gun on one hip and keys on the other. Most nights, all he did was bring in bedding and water bottles and bags of salted pretzels from the closet behind his desk. But this man had been tried. This man had steel. The building he defended held wealth in its own form, and he was here to guard it. He knew how.

This man was River's foe.

But the door was locked. She banged on it with her fist, suddenly impatient. "Let me in!" she yelled. "Need to come in!"

Inside half a minute she heard keys jangling in the locks, then the door opened. River could see the people in the dark room inside, stretched on pads on the floor of the waiting room, woken from sleep by her knocking. Not many people, only half a dozen. Simon had been productive today, treating more patients than the small clinic could normally handle.

She looked at the guard. He was a large man, and stood blocking the door. "I need to come in," she said, a little breathless. She wasn't sure why it was hard to breathe.

"Hours are over."

"I need to come in," she repeated.

He nodded and stepped aside. The patients insdie watched her entrance with a vacant curiosity. They thought she was one of their own. They pitied her.

The guard locked the door behind her. "Dr. Zhou don't see folks before eight in the AM less it's urgent," he said. "You got an emergency? In any pain?"

She clutched her elbows and shook her head.

"Well, let me get some bedding for you, darlin'." He started to turn away from her. "May as well–"

River shook her head faster. "No! Don't need sleep!"

He stopped and looked at her closely. "What do you need, then?"

She raised a hand and pointed to a door in the back of the waiting room; she'd seen what she needed in Victoria Zhou's mind, and knew where to find it.

"There. Need to go there."

The guard stared at her. Frank; his name was Frank.

"That's closed, darlin'," he said. His voice held a note of worry. He was beginning to suspect that she wasn't an ordinary patient, and his sense of caution was rising.

River lowered her pointed finger; this might not go easy, but she was prepared for that. She could see the path her body could take, and knew exactly how long she'd need to make her move. Frank's right hand was hanging beside him, fingers loose and ready, but his gun was tethered in by a leather strap and it'd take him at least three seconds to unsnap it and draw. She could easily stop him in less time than that.

But, for some reason, she didn't do it. Acting wasn't as easy as they'd made it seem in the Academy. This man was large and muscular and had little excess fat, but somehow he still looked soft in her eyes. The soldiers in the Academy, the ones she'd trained against, had never looked as soft as this. They'd always been hard shelled and brittle. They'd been purely focused on their attack, with protective armor wrapping their tender spots and nothing in their minds but orders and objectives and methods of attack. She'd never looked at them and sensed images of their personal, private selves, not like she did with Frank. She'd never seen flashes of their homes, a meal with his children at sunrise when his night shift ended, then wet kisses and round thighs of a wife before sleep stole his daylight hours away.

"Need to go in," she said, feeling desperation dance in her chest. "Unlock it. Now."

Frank's fingers crawled against his hip but didn't release the strap holding his gun in place. He knew she was watching his hand. The patients behind her were watching, too. They were watching her and they were afraid. She was too high strung; she was twitching. Her feet were pressing into the floor, toes spread inside her soft boots and weight shifting as she swayed slightly from side to side. They all saw it. It wasn't normal. She wasn't normal.

"Now, honey. I ain't got keys to the meds closet. Whatever it is you think you need, I can't give it to you. Even if I wanted."

Hurried pulse, fast breathing, dilated eyes: Frank saw all those things in her. She could have told him that it wasn't drugs or the need of them that had her in such a state. It was something else, something like the butterflies that used to do a warm-up dance in her stomach while she stood in the wings in the days before the Academy changed her, stretching her hard-soled pointe shoes and waiting for the recital music to start. This was like that feeling, but worse. It had never happened to her at the Academy. There, when the moment came to act, she'd always been calm and as steady as a piece of ice.

She needed to recapture that. To save Mal, she had to achieve that cold steeliness again.

"Open… open the door," she said, making her voice as low and hard as she could manage. That was the way Mal would sound if he was on the job, taking what he needed to keep his beloved boat afloat.

"Girl, it won't do you any – "

_It's different,_ River thought as she finally moved, her mind detached from her suddenly whirling body. _Doing this in real, waking life, far from the armored men of the Academy, is different. _

She hit Frank in the right arm first, to prevent him from using his gun. Her foot hit just above his wrist; the snap of the bone was audible. The next blow went to his abdomen, the edge of her hand striking just below his rib cage. He bent forward, allowing her a second to spin again and raise her leg for a final blow. She felt a brief softness of the flesh of his cheek before the heel of her foot in its supple leather boot hit hard bone. Consciousness left him in an instant, his limbs going pliant as putty and defenseless as newborn puppies. She heard the thuds of his body hitting the ungiving floor, each part making hard, damaging contact. Then she stood over him, seeing the bruises forming already.

"Contusions with slight ecchymosis," she said softly. "Edema of the brain, increases in intracranial pressure and concomitant crushing of brain tissue."

She sensed movement behind her before she heard it, and again her body took over, moving fast and silent in the half-lit room. She found herself crouched over the unconscious guard, his gun in her hand and pointed toward the patients in the waiting room. One of them, a young man, had almost made it to the door.

"Go back," she told him firmly, and she cocked the gun. This brought a moan of terror from the huddled group behind him. A wave of fear washed over River with a flash on images: a feverish woman struggling to cross an arid, empty landscape, her son beside her every step, bringing her from a distant colony to this clinic for treatment. Now the woman feared that he was about to die: her youngest son, shot dead by a desperate drug addict.

"Rene!" the woman cried out, and she held out her arms to the young man.

"This has nothing to do with you," River told them both, and now her voice was shaking. "Sit. Be quiet. Be done in a minute."

The man nodded and backed toward his mother, but his eyes were lit with the kind of righteous anger the just feel toward trespassers. River understood how he felt, but had no time to think about that now. She waited until he was seated again, then bent forward and took the keys from Frank's belt.

The door in the back of the waiting room opened to a hallway lined with exam rooms. River checked once that Rene was staying with his mother, then moved quickly, eager to finish and be gone. A door at the far end of the hall led to the lab; the Takara cap was in there. Of course, the door was locked. She only had to try four keys before she found the right one and the door swung open silently. She stood with her toes almost touching the threshold, her eyes devouring the dark room beyond, but she didn't go in.

Something felt wrong.

What bothered her? Not the lab equipment. Most were the standard machines needed to diagnose sickness and administer cures, all relatively new and gleaming in the faint light of the hallway. Refrigerators and vacuum hoods awaited the morning when the techs would return to carry on their heroic work; the lab benches were clean and polished, no clutter on any of them. Except one.

And there it was, the object that River had seen in the minds of Tori and Kaylee and Simon, the silvery cap that would save Mal. It was folded neatly on the furthest counter, free for the taking. Only six meters away.

But that wasn't all. It couldn't be. What had she missed?

A blinking yellow light caught her eye: next to the door, on the outside, at her left hand. A keypad. Why a digital keypad in a door that opened with a metal key? And what was the code to pacify it? Frank was out, not to wake soon, but she knew that didn't matter. He wouldn't know anyway. This was some last line of security, not to be trusted with the off hours help and the patients who bunked in the front room on busy nights. This would only be known to Tori herself, and perhaps a few of her most trusted assistants.

River could do nothing about the keypad now. Still, she wasn't about to give up. She'd just have to move fast. Twelve meters only: six there, grab the cap, six back. One table in the middle to go around. Easy.

She set the gun on the floor behind her but kept the keys tightly clenched in her left hand. In a flash, she dashed across the lab: five steps, turn the corner, three more big steps to the counter, cap in her hand, turn back…

The door was closing! Closing fast, not just swinging on its hinges but powered by some silent mechanical engine. Closing too fast….

It clicked shut just as she smashed against it, pounding her fists, pulling and pushing the latch. It was locked. She scrambled with keys, tried one, but froze when she heard a high hissing sound above her head. She understood: no key would work. This was a trap.

She turned back and once again looked over the equipment in the room, but it was too late. A sickly sweet smell tickled her nose on its way in to her blood. In only a few seconds it curdled her stomach and weakened the muscles of her legs, and that was the last she knew.

– – –

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

Simon sat quietly and watched his sister as she curled herself into a tighter ball on the bed, hugging her stomach and hiding her face. He knew she felt remorse, though she wouldn't admit to it. He wanted to comfort her, to let her know that it was safe to explain her reasons, that he would listen. But now was not the time.

Kaylee took care of the comforting for him, running her hand over River's back. "It's okay, honey."

"No, it ain't," Zoë said. "If she's gonna play like she's a pillow, someone else speak up. What the hell did she do and how did you lose the ship?"

Simon sat forward in his chair, clenching his hands nervously in front of him. He wasn't looking forward to Zoë's reaction. "I'm sure River meant well. She never meant anything but – "

"Don't need excuses, doctor. Need to know what happened."

Simon sighed.

– – –

21 hours ago, Firefly _Serenity_

He woke suddenly from a dead sleep and immediately realized that he was in his bed alone.

He didn't have to be; he could have had Kaylee with him. That would have been nice, to again wake with a warm, soft body in his arms. But it just hadn't happened that way. They'd returned from their day at the clinic for a quiet dinner – quiet until Jayne showed up, back from his long sales trip and eager to tell of his earnings and other associated adventures. Kaylee had passed by that chance, claiming a need for sleep. Simon hadn't been surprised; she'd had two long days. He just hoped it wasn't anything more, that she didn't have her own reasons for heading to her bunk without giving him a second look.

Loud, insistent banging interrupted Simon's thoughts and kept him from sliding back into sleep. He realized that this sound was what had awoken him.

"Doc! Get yer ass up!"

Jayne's voice pulled him fully awake and he squinted at his bedside clock; he'd been asleep for less than an hour.

"Gotta be now, Simon!" another voice added. The obvious worry in Kaylee's tone was startling. Sure, Jayne might make a bit of excess noise, given any excuse for pulling Simon out of sleep, but if Kaylee was sounding like that…

Simon was out his door seconds later, still shrugging on his shirt. Kaylee was looking a bit blurry herself, as if she'd been dragged out of her bed too. Jayne was over toward the infirmary. The merc had his biggest gun slung over his shoulder and seemed wide awake and ready for action.

"What's happening?" Simon asked.

Kaylee grabbed Simon's arm and pulled him toward the bay. "No time. We gotta go!"

"Where?"

"Got a wave from Tori," Kaylee said. "She's meetin' us at the clinic. Someone's tried to steal the cap."

As the three of them hurried through the dark, empty streets of the settlement, the only answer Simon got to his questions was: "Dunno! She didn't say!" Eventually, he gave up and followed quietly.

They found the clinic door ajar. Jayne pushed it open with his elbow and stepped in with his gun at the ready. When nothing happened, Simon followed after, Kaylee just behind him.

The room was mostly dark; the lights from the guard's booth just illuminated a small group of patients who huddled on the floor of the waiting room off to Simon's left. But his eyes were quickly drawn to the middle of the room; just a few meters inside. Tori was crouching next to a large uniformed man who lay unconscious on the floor. Simon moved to help, but Tori's wild words stopped him.

"Simon…? Simon!" She stared at him with wide, fearful eyes but pointed a hard finger at Jayne. "Is this… guàiwu with you?"

Simon glanced at Jayne; the merc was in invasion mode, sweeping the dark space with the dangerous end of his mammoth gun. The patients cowered back when his scan passed over them

"Get him out!" Tori yelled. "Get that ape and his damned cannon out of here!"

"But… are you safe?" Simon asked.

"This is a hospital!" Tori hissed. "Get him out!"

Jayne finished his sweep and lifted the barrel of his gun up to the ceiling, then shrugged. "Yell if you need a real man," he said indifferently, and he slipped back out the door.

Simon ran a hand through his hair – Tori's words were unsettling. At one time, he would have had the same reaction to the presence of someone like Jayne, when he'd have felt the same unwillingness to let an armed mercenary enter a medical facility in the middle of the night. But that was ridiculous – this wasn't the Core, and the need for armed protection was obvious.

"I… I thought you were being robbed," Simon started to explain, but Tori wasn't interested. She rose to her feet, her face set in anger.

"What haven't you told me?" she demanded.

Simon looked to Kaylee; she shrugged, just as bewildered as he was. "Tori, I have no idea–"

He was interrupted when Tori grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the doorway in the back of the waiting room. He looked back at Kaylee and shrugged his bewilderment. She only nodded for him to go ahead, then took Tori's place beside the downed guard.

Tori spoke as she pulled him down the hallway. "Simon, I need to know why I have a drug addict coming in here, damaging my guard and trying to steal the cap. None of my own people would do this, and no one else knew it was here. If you've gotten me involved in any kind of shady criminal business…"

They entered the one examination room with its lights on. River was lying on the paper-lined table. She was unconscious, and clutched the Takara cap tightly in her right hand.

Simon ignored Tori and hurried to the table to check River's vitals; he exhaled in relief when he found her heartbeat slow but steady, and saw that she didn't have any visible injuries. He laid a hand on her forehead and looked toward Tori.

"What happened to her?"

Tori's face was still tight with anger. "You know this person?"

"Of course I do. This is my sister. What did you do to her?"

"What did _I_ do to her? She was the one doing the… doing. You saw my guard! She knocked him out so she could take his keys and get into the lab. She threatened the patients with his gun!"

"That's not…" Simon was going to say _that's not possible_, but he knew that it very well might be. He looked at River again; she was pale and appeared too fragile to harm anyone, but he'd learned better than that.

"Your sister, Simon?" Tori's tone held an accusation as well as the question: _why would she do this? _

Simon looked up. "Just tell me – is she all right?"

"The security system sedates thieves; it's the safest way to handle them, since I can't expect any help from settlement security. She'll be out for a while, but not harmed. Not harmed by me, anyway. I can't say a thing about whatever state she was in before."

"What do you mean?"

"The patients said she was extremely agitated. She was shaking, in a state of high anxiety. She could barely speak in complete sentences. They say she was on drugs. Either that or insane."

"She's neither," Simon said firmly, but then he sighed and looked down at River. "Well, actually, I guess she's a little of both." He brushed River's hair back and bent to place a kiss on her forehead, silently apologizing for his words. The truth was a hard thing sometimes.

And it needed to be explained. He focused on River's right hand, gently opening her fist to free the cap, while he explained her state to Tori. He said nothing of River's "special" abilities, but did tell of the things that were done to her at the Academy, the lengths he'd gone to get her out, and how he'd protected and treated her since. He knew that Tori would believe it. Of all the people he'd known in his former life, Tori might be the only one who wouldn't argue or tell him he was insane. She'd believe that the Alliance could do such things to an innocent teenager. And she'd understand the details; unlike the crew of _Serenity_, Tori would appreciate the full implications of a stripped amygdala.

In a way, it was a relief to tell her. It was the first time since he deciphered River's letters years ago that he felt like he was talking to someone who could truly hear him.

"So, yes, she's on medication," he finished. "And she's… she's prone to acting oddly now and then. But it's not her fault." He met Tori's eyes and saw that she did understand. Her anger was gone, replaced by concern and even pity. "I've done all I can to keep her stable. I thought it was working – she's been doing so well for the past few months. I don't understand what could have made her do this, hurt someone who presented no danger. I'd have never thought it possible. I guess… she's been very worried about the man I'm trying to help. Perhaps that overwhelmed her. She can't control her emotions."

"But doesn't she know that I'm on your side?"

Simon shrugged helplessly. "I guess… I guess not. She's been very impatient about getting back to him."

This stirred up Tori's ire again. "Impatient? Simon, she broke my guard's arm and gave him a serious concussion, then she threatened sick, helpless people. Held them at gunpoint! Maybe that's no big deal to you, but they're not used to living like that. Neither am I."

Simon set the freed cap on the bed and shook his head. "I'm so sorry. I never would have thought… River's always been so kind. So loving. Even in the past year, as hard as it's been for her, she's always worrying about me. For her to resort to stealing… and to hurt someone…"

Tori stood and walked to the table, then reached out to touch his hand. The contact made him look up and meet her eyes.

"Simon, I want to suggest something, and don't get upset, all right?"

He nodded. He felt too exhausted and overwhelmed to get upset about anything.

"It's clear to me that you're fond of the crew of that Firefly, and I think it's truly noble how you're trying to help them. But you have to ask yourself what kind of influence they are on your sister."

Simon started to reply to that, but found he couldn't.

"I don't know these people, so maybe I'm overstepping my bounds. Kaylee is certainly harmless enough. But I know what kind of business a ship like that does, and the musclehead with the planet-sized gun who just pushed his way into my lobby only proves it. These people live by taking."

"No. They're not like that," Simon insisted.

"Aren't they?"

He looked down at his hands. "Mostly, they're not. Things are hard for them. They do what they need to do to survive."

Tori looked down at River, at her pale face. "And that's the environment you want your sister to grow up in? To heal in? Desperation?"

Simon shhok his head; her questions touched on the truth, but she was oversimplifying. "That's not all there is. They've provided a safe place for us when they didn't need to. I wouldn't have gotten through this past year without their help."

"And they've gotten the services of an extremely talented doctor in return. Look, Simon, I'm just saying – be careful. Don't blind yourself to your situation just because you're in love with the mechanic."

"I'm not in… I like Kaylee a lot, and we're… involved. But I told you – it's new. It started just when we got here, and it's not… defined. At all."

"Haven't you talked to her?"

"There hasn't been time. I'm not sure what she wants, and I…." Simon shook his head at himself. Here he was, talking romance with Tori again, when it was none of her business. "The point is: I'm not blind to anything. Yes, my situation is not ideal for River. But I'm on the run from the entire Alliance government as well as the occasional violently insane bounty hunter who magically appears in the middle of empty space. I'm not real likely to find a nice split level home in a respectable school district anytime soon. I'm lucky to have a place on _Serenity_. It's the best I can do."

Tori nodded, but it wasn't agreement – her eyes wouldn't meet his and her mouth pursed. She turned to set a hand on River's arm and changed the subject.

"She should stay here. I'm going to spend the night, so I can monitor her until the drugs clear. It'll take some time."

Simon let out a deep breath and turned back to the table, his attention returned to River's condition. "Which drugs?"

Tori explained; it turned out to be a cocktail of several chemicals, something she had personally tailored for her clinic's security system, developing it for release as an inhalant to quickly incapacitate anyone who entered the lab without disabling the system. She seemed pleased with the arrangement she'd come up with, but Simon stared at her in shock.

"Are you insane?" he asked.

His tone caught her by surprise. "What do you mean?"

He put a defensive hand on River's shoulder. "You do realize how sick she's going to be?"

Tori's face turned hard. "I didn't go out looking to sedate your sister. Anyone who'd break into my clinic – the only decent medical facility these miners have – and steal my lab equipment for their own profit deserves to be ill for a day or two. It's not permanent."

Simon couldn't believe he was hearing this from a doctor. "But it's completely unnecessary."

"Hardly. The only law enforcement around here works for the mining company, and they won't be jumping to my defense. Building in a little deterrent is just good sense."

Simon shook his head, but he didn't try to explain to Tori how unbecoming he found her vindictiveness. Security was one thing; building revenge into the system was another.

"River was only trying to help someone who needs it," he said. "I'm very sorry about the guard and the people in the waiting room. When she wakes up, I'll make sure that she understands what she's done to them." He bent to gather River in his arms; he wasn't about to leave her with Tori. "I'll see you in the morning – and I'll ask Kaylee to do all she can to finish the cap tomorrow so we can be on our way."

Tori didn't reply, and stayed behind after he left the room.

– – –

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

Zoë watched River while Simon told of his sister's foray into crime. The girl might have been nothing but a bit of bedding; she didn't hardly move. But Simon's voice held a heavy note of apology. Clearly, he felt responsible.

"I know that I'm supposed to keep an eye on her, but I was so busy. And I thought–"

Book interrupted. "You've had your hands full, son. That's for certain. It's a shame you couldn't rely on others to help." He gave Jayne a pointed look.

Jayne's voice rose defensively. "Hey, I had a bit'a full-hands too! I mean–"

"No, I should have been watching her," Wash said with a sad shake of his head. "I had nothing else to do. I should have kept track. I never even noticed that she'd left the ship."

"Speaking of the ship…" Zoë hinted.

"That weren't my fault neither," Jayne jumped in to say. "If she didn't go and get ideas bout thievery, them guards wouldn'a came down."

Zoë looked at the merc sharply. "Guards? Came down?"

Simon shot Jayne a frown before he leaned toward Zoë. He spoke in a deliberately cool voice, as if hoping to keep her calm. It only made Zoë want to give him a quick slap. "It was one of the patients in the waiting room. After River passed through and went back to the lab, he ran out to tell the settlement security what was happening. You can't blame him – he couldn't have known that River would never have shot anyone."

Zoë could have debated that, but she didn't. "Settlement security?"

"I guess the company keeps a' outpost," Kaylee explained. "Just a few guys in a' office in town. But they didn't hurry none. From what we worked out, they must'a just called it up to headquarters in orbit."

Simon nodded agreement. "Tori told us about it the next day. She said that the men stationed in the settlement wouldn't care about the break-in, but that the company officials in the orbiting headquarters must have seen it as a chance to give her clinic a black mark. They sent down a few security men who showed up a while after we left."

"And Doctor Zhou told them all about you," Zoë guessed.

"No. She didn't say a thing about me, or about River."

Wash modified that. "Well, she told them that some junky had tried to get to her stock of meds."

"She had no choice," Simon firmly told the pilot, then he focused on Zoë again. "Look, I can't say I'm very fond of Tori right now, but I have to give her credit. She did her best to cover for us. The security men searched the clinic and they talked to the people in the waiting room. They saw the injured guard. She had to tell them something, so she went with everyone's assumptions. She said it was an addict, a desperate girl who'd caught the guard by surprise but found the med room locked and fled. Tori stressed that the girl was an unfamiliar face, had likely left the settlement to go back to wherever she came from, and that it was no use hunting for her."

Kaylee shook her head. "Course, that just sent the guards off lookin' for a ship she might have hitched on …"

"Which led them to _Serenity_," Zoë finished.

Simon nodded, but Wash took over the explaining. "Simon had settled River into bed and Kaylee was just finished filling me on events when those goons came banging on the hatch. I wasn't about to open the door – you know that type just takes an open door as an invitation to search the ship. But I had to talk to them over the comm."

"The húndàn put a landing lock on us!" Kaylee interjected, clearly offended at their nerve.

Wash went on. "So I told them that we all had the flu and they'd best stay away."

Zoë couldn't help but smile at her husband's guile. "That's very creative of you, darling."

"I thought so. I even sneezed a few times, right into the comm. I thought I had them!"

"But he didn't," Kaylee said. "After a few minutes, they started sayin' didn't care none about gettin' sick, and then started yellin' about how they had a warrant."

Zoë looked at Simon in alarm. "They got a warrant? To hunt for River?"

The doctor shook his head. "No, nothing tied us to what happened at the clinic."

"So then, what was the warrant for?"

"Um…" Simon dropped his head and studied his entwined fingers. He suddenly looked absolutely miserable. Zoë glanced around the room – he wasn't the only one. Kaylee was completely absorbed in finger combing River's hair, and even Wash wouldn't meet Zoë's eyes; he took interest in the bright yellow sun painted on the ceiling.

But Jayne folded his arms and answered the question in a gruff voice. "The gorramn parking fee," he said, "and that sure as guĭ ain't my fault!"

Zoë scooted across the bed enough so she could turn and give Wash a hard look. "A parking fee? You lost the ship over a parking fee?"

Wash shrugged helplessly.

"Well, there was a sign," Kaylee said, "but it was old and beat up. It said all this stuff bout visitors registerin' in orbit and fillin' out papers, but ain't no one actually does that kind of thing on worlds like this."

"It's true that such rules are rarely enforced," Book said, coming to the crew's defense, "but they provide an excellent excuse to detain those wanted for other reasons."

"Xactly," Jayne said, and he stabbed a finger toward the curled up body on the top end of the bed. "If River'd stayed put, no one'd'a cared a dime bout any fee!"

"The blame isn't River's alone," Simon told the merc. "We all take some share."

"Can we leave aside the blame?" Zoë told them impatiently. "I'm still not settled on how they got the ship and not you all."

Wash sighed and went on with the explaining. "OK, so they had a warrant and weren't going to go away. I offered to pay the fee right then and there – we had Jayne's earnings, which was plenty. But they said they wouldn't take it. They wanted to impound the ship and take us up to the orbital offices to do all the paperwork."

"Which would give them a chance to search _Serenity_," Simon added, "and find River."

Kaylee spoke up, her voice rising with distress. "And they meant business! They started poundin' on the doors and threatenin' to force their way in, sayin' if we didn't open up willingly they'd lock us all away in work camps and make us go down to the salt mines!" In her excitement, she jerked her fingers free from a particularly tricky tangle in River's hair, making the girl raise her head and grunt.

"I stalled as long as I could," Wash said. "We had to find something to do with River. Even if they didn't know she's an Alliance fugitive, they had a description of her from the clinic."

Kaylee gave River's head an apologetic pat, then fixed her eyes on Zoë. "I was tryin' to lock down the cargo bay doors to keep em out for a time, but they had some magnetic thingys to force the lock."

"We had no choice but to run," Wash said. "I wanted to take along a comm unit so I'd be able to wave you, but I had no time to set it up. They'd have been able to trace the signal when it came through the ship."

"I couldn't even grab River's medication or a change of clothes," Simon added. "All I could find were her shoes, and then they were forcing open the door…"

"How'd you get out?" Book asked, his voice a little raised. He was getting caught up in the storytellers' excitement.

"Hatch under the cockpit," Jayne said. "Weren't easy."

Kaylee nodded agreement. "Them company security folks were waitin', right below us, to come in the cargo bay. They had guns and all. They sure do get upset over parkin' fees!"

"We had to climb around the side of the ship," Wash said, "hoping those men didn't look up and see us. It was a bit… nerve-wracking."

"And don't forget that I was carrying moonbrain here over a shoulder," Jayne said, his tone demanding appreciation, "since she was all dead to the world. Like to see any a' you manage climbing down a ship carryin' a body – without makin' a sound, too."

Kaylee didn't say thanks; she was fully wound up. "We had to hang there on the side of the hull till the men went inside, then we climbed down _Serenity_'s back foot and ran, fast and quiet as we could. I had my heart in my throat, thinkin' they'd look out and see us!"

Jayne nodded toward the curled up girl on the bed. "And then River here wakes up and starts puking all over, like she's out to leave a trail."

"Couldn't help it," River said. Her face was buried again and the blankets muffled her already small voice.

"Maybe you ought'a ruttin' learn," Jayne told her harshly. Simon opened his mouth to reply, but Jayne went on. "I left her to finish that business and came here, to the House of Huāzhù. Bargained a few rooms for us, and a ship to make use of once it was time to fetch you three. Had to use up some of the coin I'd made, but it was just a good thing I had it in my pocket."

"Yes, your greedy nature saved the day," Wash said dryly. "Jayne came back to rescue us from the streets and brought us to this house of many floral delights. All praise Jayne."

Kaylee went right past the chance to ridicule the mercenary. "We didn't stay long," she said. "Not me and Simon. It was near sunrise by then – this morning's sunrise, but it feels like days ago! We just got River settled before we had to get back to the clinic and finish up the cap."

"It took all day," Simon went on. "Kaylee just got it ready as the last patients left. We came straight back here, then Kaylee and Wash used the House's taxi to bring you over."

The doctor looked around the room once, as if checking that they'd told all the important details. Everyone was sitting up now, bright-eyed and animated from telling of their escape, but no one had anything to add.

Simon leaned back in his chair and exhaled. "And so here we are."

"Here we are," Zoë repeated.

"That's right."

Zoë looked them over and thought about it. "And Tori helped you today, and wasn't all mad about her man gettin' beat last night?"

"I told you – I explained to her about River. She understood. I'm not going to say she wasn't upset, but she understood. And I treated the guard, set his arm." He looked toward River. "He's going to be fine."

"And that's it." Zoë murmured to herself. It was enough, she decided. Kaylee and Simon had hardly slept in two days, River was still recovering from being drugged, and it was getting to be late night. No good could be had in wandering the streets looking for an impounded ship. For now, what they all needed was rest.

"Fine, then," she said. "Tomorrow I'll see what's to be done. Mayhap I can play the game, fill out the forms and pay the fee, then we can get the hell out. Tomorrow. Jayne, we got a third room?"

"Damn right," Jayne replied with some obvious pride at having handled this himself. "Had to pay up extra on account of it bein' Saturday, but got dibs on the one right across the hall. Colored bright orange."

Zoë did a quick calculation: three rooms, eight people. "Simon, you need to sit in with Mal?"

Simon shrugged; the reminder of his neediest patient brought weariness back to his face. "I suppose I should– "

"No need," Book interrupted. "Son, you're likely too dead tired to keep a decent watch. I'll take the floor in Mal's room." The Shepherd climbed to his feet.

Jayne stood up too. "And I got bunk elsewhere." He caught Zoë's raised eyebrow. "It's my own share of the take," he added defensively. He pulled a few coins from his pocket and jingled them at her as if they were evidence, then hurried to follow the Shepherd out the door.

"Simon, River, Kaylee – you're in here," Zoë said. "Me and Wash'll take the other room."

"Orange," Wash said, rubbing his hands together with forced gusto. "Marigolds, do you think?"

"Won't matter none," Zoë said as she pushed him off the bed and toward the door. "I don't plan on the lights bein' on for long."

Wash flashed her an eager look, then hurried out of the room. Zoë followed just as quick – it was past time for a true reunion with her husband.

– – –

Translations  
guàiwu: monster; freak  
húndàn: bastard  
guĭ: hell

– – –

_Just think, after this there's only three more chances to leave a review..._


	18. Chapter 18

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

_The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money._

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

* * *

**Chapter 18.**

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

Simon sat forward in his chair and stared at his hands, watching his fingers slide over each other. It'd been a long time since he got as much use out of his hands as he had in the past few days. True, much of it had been simple check-ups; he'd done nothing even approaching surgery. But still, it had been something to practice his trade in a real medical establishment. He'd had two full days of feeling useful rather than like a bumbling idiot, of receiving heart-felt words of gratitude and titles of respect rather than the usual dismissive and condescending slights he'd grown used to in the past year.

Not that he was wholly unappreciated on _Serenity_. Simon'd saved the lives of several members of the crew – and he knew that they knew it. They acquiesced to him without argument when the blood was pouring out and a life hung in the balance, and now and then they went so far as to thank him for the quick healing and minimal scars that followed his treatments.

But, on any average day when life and death wasn't an immediate question, things were different. He just didn't belong. He could never work out the rules, know the proper times for bizarre forms of humor that he rarely found funny, or other times for serious words when his own ill-timed jokes fell flat. He was constantly getting things wrong, and it was a rare day when his mistakes were allowed to slide by unnoticed and unridiculed.

Life on _Serenity_ held times for violence too. Simon had figured out a few of those– when River was in danger, he never questioned his actions. He simply did what he could to defend her. Sometimes he couldn't do enough; he couldn't bring himself to use violence as easily as this crew did.

River, apparently, was having no problem with that. And therein lay the root of his dilemma: could he allow his sister to live like this? If his first priority was her well-being, shouldn't he be looking for a more stable place? A way of life where a traumatized eighteen year old could heal and, as much as possible, grow into a healthy young woman?

He raised his head when the source of his worries suddenly sat up on the rose-colored bed in front of him.

"My hygienic state is questionable," River announced. "Shower time."

Kaylee hadn't moved while the rest of the crew left the room – which had happened a few long minutes ago, Simon realized, minutes he'd spent lost in his own thoughts. Now the mechanic smiled brightly at River's words, glancing at Simon to share her humor. That smile was something. Simon knew that Kaylee was well aware of his short-comings, but still she so often found a reason to smile at him like that, like she was offering a gift and expecting nothing in return.

River slid off the bed and stepped toward the door, and Simon finally roused himself and rose to his feet – she was about to go wandering through a whore house during peak business hours on a Saturday night, and he couldn't allow that.

"I'll help you," he said.

River stopped and stared at him, her forehead wrinkled in confusion. Kaylee stared too.

"I mean… I'll help you find the bathroom. And a towel. Not help with the… the showering."

"Been here all day," River said. "Sick. I know where the bathroom is." She managed just enough of an eye-roll to express her full meaning before she slipped out the door: her brother was an idiot.

Kaylee laughed. "No matter how you try Simon, she just ain't gonna let you baby her."

"I don't mean to baby her. I just…" He plopped back into his chair heavily. "Last night she broke into the clinic and injured a security guard, and tonight she's wandering about a whorehouse on her own." He looked toward the door, unsure. "Maybe I should go after her, just to make sure that she doesn't get lost…."

"Simon Tam!" Kaylee's sharp words snapped his attention back into the room. She was still sitting on the bed, but she wasn't smiling anymore. She looked almost angry now, a sudden change of mood that he'd seen in her a few times lately, but usually when he did something to upset her she just huffed a few choice words and went off on her own. Not tonight. This time, she clearly meant to have her say.

"Simon Tam – your sister is not a little girl anymore! You are gonna have to quit actin' like she is. No matter where you take her, she is gonna be in dark, scary places facing dark, scary things. Dangers and temptations and such. Those are gonna be there cause that's just how this verse is, and you can't change it. Nobody can. And you can't be chasin' her around, livin' in her back pocket. It ain't good for you and it ain't good for her neither. She's gotta learn how to deal with life how it really is, and she can't do that with you gettin' all in her way."

Simon wasn't sure what to say. She'd surprised him with her outburst. She may have surprised herself too; she'd punctuated a few choice words with slaps of her hand against the bedding, but when she finished she pulled her hands back in and clasped them together.

She looked away and blushed just a little. "I'm sorry, Simon. I don't mean to be tellin' you what to do with River. I was just meanin' that – "

"No, it's all right. I see your point."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Maybe I'm like one of those parents – the kind that can't let go, that can't let their children be independent."

That made Kaylee come around to a more forgiving mood. "Well, it ain't like you don't have reason. River ain't exactly a normal girl."

"But being so overprotective can't help. Maybe if I'd talked to her, told her exactly what was happening at the clinic these last few days, she wouldn't have thought it necessary to break in last night. Especially with how she can _read_… She senses things, but she misinterprets them. She has so little experience with real, everyday life, and it's easy for her to jump to conclusions. Maybe, instead of sheltering her, I should try to tell her more, let her take part and understand what's really happening…"

He shook his head again, feeling overwhelmed. Had he been wrong all this time? Had his approach in treating River been wrong?

He realized that Kaylee had moved off the bed and was kneeling next to his chair. She reached up and stroked a hand over his cheek; it was just a small gesture, but her touch was warm and tender, and it affected him. Not sexually, exactly, though it could certainly go that way.

No, mostly it was comforting. It reminded him of how little personal human contact he'd had in the past year. The past several years, really. People in the Core didn't touch as freely as Kaylee did. He found himself wanting her palm to stay where it was, sliding gently against his cheek and jaw, and had to fight off the urge to close his eyes like a little boy.

"You expect too much of yourself, Simon," she said softly. "What you done with River is good work. You can't go beatin' yourself up over every little thing that ain't perfect."

He was in no place to judge whether that was true; he could only smile and nod. Kaylee shifted then, rising to slide onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her waist and felt her hug him in return, one hand on his back and another gently winding in his hair. He leaned into her shoulder, and since she couldn't see his face he let himself close his eyes.

He could sleep here, wrapped up like this. He could never move from this creaky wooden chair and that'd be fine.

Kaylee had other plans. "Simon," she said hesitantly, "now may not be the best time but…"

He didn't open his eyes, only sighed.

She went on. "I just wanna make sure of somethin'."

"What?" he asked quietly, though he was more than ready to be done with the speaking and thinking and generally being awake part of the day.

"Well… " She loosened her grip on him and pulled away a little. "You see, earlier today, right before we left the clinic, Tori told me some stuff."

Of course it had to do with Tori. His school mate Victoria Zhou was proving herself to be quite a headache.

"What'd she say?"

Kaylee sat up more – she still had an arm over his shoulder, but it was just to balance herself. The time for comforting cuddles had passed; Kaylee's mind was elsewhere.

"It was about River at first," she said. "I asked Tori if she really wasn't mad about River breakin' in, cause we hadn't said a word about it all day and that wasn't right – it needed to be talked about, I thought. Tori said she wasn't mad. But then she started wonderin' how River could'a done such a thing, since she's so tiny and all, and I said she couldn't have meant to hurt the guard cause River's really a nice girl who don't want to do no harm. So then Tori said that River must'a gotten some strange ideas from living on _Serenity_, ideas about how to go about doing things, and I said that was silly. And then… well…"

Simon sighed again. What else could he do but resign himself to hearing the whole story?

"What?"

– – –

Clinic, five hours ago

Tori stepped onto the bottom rung of a stool and reached up to slide a voltage converter into a high cabinet. Then she turned to gave Kaylee a thoughtful look. After a long second, she sat down on the stool and patted another next to her.

"Kaylee, I think I ought to tell you something. Here, sit down."

Kaylee looked over the room; it was late and the lab staff had left. Simon was still in the office up front, writing out his notes for the day, so the two women were alone. It didn't comfort Kaylee – she didn't fear Tori, but wasn't exactly eager for a private heart-to-heart. But her time in the clinic was nearly over; the cap was done and they could send for the captain and Zoë and Book now. Zoë'd get the ship back, they'd leave Highgate, and Kaylee'd never see Dr. Victoria Zhou ever again.

So she sat down on the stool and nodded at the doctor to have her say.

Tori earnestly held Kaylee's eye while she talked. "Look, I know how Simon is. He's basically a good man and has all the best intentions, but he's a little… unaware sometimes. He's still not very good at communicating, is he?"

Kaylee couldn't help but smile as she shook her head.

"So I'm sure he hasn't told you, but I think you should know… Simon's considering staying here."

Kaylee couldn't stop herself from gaping, but just for a quick second. "Stayin' here? Like… on Highgate?"

"Yes."

Kaylee drew in a quick breath – that that was just silly. Simon wouldn't do that. And certainly not without saying something.

"But why?"

"For River, mostly." Tori looked around the lab. "There can't be another place in the verse where he can have access to this kind of medical facility without being in danger of arrest." Her eyes settled on Kaylee again. "And we have a community here in the settlement. People River's age. That girl doesn't just need to heal, she needs to learn how to be a young woman. Simon knows that – River's well-being is very important to him."

"Oh, gee. Well… I guess…." Kaylee didn't like the idea, but she could see the sense of it. River needed more than a doctor; she needed a life. She'd been wanting to date for some time, but didn't have a single option on _Serenity_. Kaylee understood well the importance of having a man, and knew how it must be a problem for River. Maybe Simon was beginning to understood too.

Tori went on. "And honestly, I think Simon likes working here. I think he's missed being a practicing doctor. This clinic is a damned sight closer to the kind of life he's trained for than a tiny cargo freighter wandering about in the Black."

Kaylee straightened at the slight. "Hey – _Serenity_ may be tiny, but she's the best gorramned cargo freighter there is!"

Tori smiled apologetically, though Kaylee wasn't sure she believed it. "I'm sure your ship is very special," Tori said. "But it doesn't provide a whole community. River needs friends, boys, a school…."

"Simon teaches her stuff on days when he can. When she's well enough, you know. She's worked with me on the engine – cōng míng rútóng yīgè zhăngjí, that girl is. Wash'll let her sit in the co-pilot seat and look at how the controls work, and Inara – well she ain't here no more, but she used to teach River about bein' proper, wearing nice clothes and talkin' polite."

Tori opened her mouth to reply, but Kaylee didn't let her.

"Look, I know I'm goin' on, but I could say plenty more. River learns bunches on _Serenity_. We got us a community, and River and Simon are part of it. And I ain't just saying that cause Simon's parts are the right size to push my kòu de lè qù just right – Simon and River are part of the crew, part of the family. They belong with us."

Tori just tilted her head – a funny kind of shrug. "Well, you are very nice people and Simon thinks the verse of you, I don't doubt that. He doesn't want to leave. But, Kaylee, can you see that it's not about Simon's needs? It's not even about _Serenity_'s needs. If you really care for him, and for River, you need to consider what's best for them in the long run."

The doctor reached out a hesitant hand and set it over Kaylee's. "You're a fine girl, and I know that you and he are… well, I know you're close. But a man like Simon sets his priorities on more than his own desires. It's a hard thing to consider, but I want you to be prepared. He may put River's health before the good things he's found on _Serenity_. I hope you can find it in yourself to support him in this very hard choice he has to make, and not punish him for being a good brother."

– – –

House of Huāzhù

Simon shook his head at what Kaylee was telling him. "It's like being back in MedAcad, having someone play a game like this." He focused on Kaylee again. "She was manipulating you. She completely made it up. She and I didn't talk about the possibility of my staying on Highgate until later, until we left the clinic."

– – –

Four and a half hours ago, Outside Zhou's Clinic

Simon stood next to Kaylee while Tori locked the clinic door. He had the Takara cap rolled up in a paper bag which he held gently in his right hand. He expected that he'd never come back to this place. Once Zoë got to Highgate, she'd get the ship back and they'd move on, leaving this world behind. And he'd finally have a chance to do right by Kaylee.

The thought made him look toward the mechanic, and he felt drawn toward her, as if her body exerted some kind of force on his. He shook his head: he was beyond tired.

Tori turned away from the door, but instead of walking with them toward the ship as he expected, she waved a hand at Kaylee, shooing her away as if she was nothing more than a stray dog.

"Tori…" Simon said, meaning to protest, but she grabbed his elbow and pulled him aside.

"This is important, Simon. And private."

It didn't seem to Simon that anything needed to be said in private at this point, but Kaylee had already turned her back and stepped out of hearing range.

"You can't treat her like that – " Simon started.

"This isn't about Kaylee. This is about you and your sister."

Simon blinked stupidly; his mind was sluggish after his long day. "River? I thought we went over this."

"Look, Simon. I understand you're doing your best with her, and what you've done so far… it's damned near heroic. But you can't stay with these people. Don't you see what's happening?"

"We settled this," Simon said, trying to make his voice firm. "_Serenity_ is the best place for us. The only place."

"What about here?"

His mouth dropped open; he hadn't even thought about that. He'd been too engrossed in his short term plans: get the cap, help Mal, move on.

"Think about it, Simon. River's sick, she's young, and she's impressionable. She needs treatment, the kind you can provide for her here. And more than that – she needs stability. She needs to learn that attacking people and stealing what isn't hers _isn't right_. And you need a place yourself."

Simon shook his head. "I have a place."

"Doing what? Fixing wounds that these people deserve because they prey off the innocent?"

"They don't…"

"They're criminals – you know it. And they're turning you and River into the same."

He smiled wryly. "I'm a criminal in my own right; I don't need their help."

Tori didn't share his amusement; she continued earnestly. "You know what I mean. You're an honorable man, a skilled doctor, and you could have a place here. A safe place where you can be useful. You can help these miners – good, hard-working, honest people. That's what you've always wanted. That's what you spent all those years at school for. And honestly, Simon, what you've done in the past two days… I could never work as fast as you do. You excel at this. With you, I could expand, open another clinic. We could change lives. We could make a real difference."

Simon glanced back at Kaylee, who was studying the night sky. "I'm still a fugitive," he said. "That won't change."

"It doesn't matter here. If you'd just quit being so damned neat, maybe grow a beard, you'd blend in. At least a little. Anyhow, it's not a danger – the Alliance doesn't have any presence on Highgate. I've thought about this: you can run a remote clinic, on the Western continent. I've been wanting to expand. Four other colonies need clinics; you could choose one. I'd send any cases requiring surgery to you–"

"River's a fugitive. Not just with the Alliance, but with local security."

"I've talked to the young man who called them in last night. I explained. He's willing to alter his description of her, just enough. And she can change her appearance easily. Cut that hair off, for a start." She stepped closer and put her hand on Simon's shoulder. "You don't have to keep running, Simon. You can have a home, a purpose. That is, unless you can't leave your pretty mechanic behind."

Simon glanced at Kaylee again. Whatever it was he had with her, could he let it blind him to River's needs? Or to his own needs?

Because, really, Tori was right. He could find a place here, and do a lot of good. In fact, this world could be a blessing, exactly what he'd been hoping to find when he first took River away from the Academy. A safe, hidden settlement where he could earn a living without doing crime. Modern medical facilities and medications for River, a stable environment, a home that stayed in one place, food that didn't run out when pay was slow in coming.

He couldn't deny that what River'd done frightened him. Defending _Serenity_ and Kaylee from gunmen on Niska's station was one thing, but he'd never thought his little sister capable of taking initiative in an act of crime and violence. Maybe it was because he hadn't been paying enough attention to her. But he couldn't dismiss the type of people she held up as role models. She clearly admired the captain, and that didn't make Simon feel at ease.

He felt Tori's hand sliding down his arm, and suddenly understood that more than one message was being passed, more than one offer given. It was unwelcome – his attraction to this woman had been short-lived and died out long ago. But he didn't shake off her touch; he didn't want to be ungrateful. Tori'd done him a favor these past few days, and she'd lied to protect River.

Besides, if he did end up staying, he didn't want any hostility between them. But he had to be clear about where his interests lay.

"Look, Tori," he said softly. "You raise some… valid points. But there's nothing between you and me. There never was, really. If I stay here, it won't be for that."

He was surprised that she didn't look even a bit offended. "That's fine Simon. Whatever you want – as a friend, I hope you do what's best for River. And for you." She let her fingers catch his palm and held on as she stepped away from him, making his arm stretch out toward her.

"Just think about it," she said, and she squeezed his hand before she turned away.

– – –

House of Huāzhù

"I'm telling you," Simon insisted to Kaylee, "_she_ brought it up. I swear! I hadn't been thinking a thing about it until she made the suggestion."

Kaylee held his eye, but she looked uncertain. "And you told her no."

Simon dropped his eyes; he couldn't answer.

"You told her no, didn't you?"

He shook his head. "I didn't say yes or no."

Kaylee pushed off his lap and slid back onto the bed where stared at him, her jaw clenched angrily.

"I have to think about it. Look, Kaylee, I don't like Tori and… I don't like this world much, but I have to look at my situation rationally."

"Ain't no amount of _rational_ can change the fact that she's a liar. She set us up! I see it now – she thinks we don't talk cause of how you're no good at talkin' to women, and she figured she could split us up. Maybe even get me to talk you into stayin', even though I don't think it'd be a good thing for you at all. Not good for River either."

"Wait – you don't think this would be good for River?"

"Hell, no! Tori's creepy, Simon. Downright creepy! I mean, she may have a point that _Serenity_ ain't sailing clean and pure above the law all the time, but at least when we do crime we're honest about it. Tori, she's just… Well, if you're looking for folks got a sense of what's right and what's wrong – folks on _Serenity_ know about that worlds better than Victoria Zhou! We may choose to walk the far side now and then, but we don't try convincin' anyone that we're something we ain't."

Simon leaned forward on his elbows. Kaylee was right about Tori, but it didn't make his situation any easier. He dropped his head in his hands, then felt a touch on his arm – Kaylee had slid back across the bed so she could reach out to him.

"I'm sorry, Simon. I shouldn't be at you now bout this, not when we're both half dead tired. Let's worry on it in the morning. Now – how bout you take the bed? Get yourself some sleep."

Simon understood – the direction their earlier hugging could have taken was completely lost now. Perhaps it was best that they just sleep, but he couldn't take the bed, leaving Kaylee and River on the floor.

River…

"It's been a while," he said.

"A while?"

"Since River went to shower. Shouldn't she be back by now?"

Kaylee frowned at him.

"I know, I know. I'm overprotective. But… in this house and after last night…"

Kaylee sighed, but she nodded. "Go on."

It didn't take Simon long to locate his wayward sister. He went to the only part of the house he knew – the main lounge by the front door. He was hoping to get directions to the nearest shower room, but he found River curled up on a long, plump purple sofa. She was wearing a huge sky blue robe, had a green towel wound around her head, and her face was still pink from washing.

She was sitting next to a heavily made-up girl in a dark red gown so tight that it couldn't have allowed her much room to breathe. The girl – the whore, Simon reminded himself – couldn't have been much older than River, maybe a year or two, but River was staring at her with rapt attention. The girl was talking, describing something in detail, and she made a motion with her hands that Simon didn't want to even try to interpret.

"River!" he called out.

His sister started and looked up at him. "Not tired," she said.

"But it's late. It's time for bed."

She gave her new friend an apologetic look, then jumped to her feet. She let the towel fall off her head and her wet hair uncoiled around her shoulders as she crossed the room.

"Not tired," she repeated once she reached him. "Slept… I slept all day. I am rested. I want to make friends now."

He lowered his voice. "Perhaps this isn't the best time or place for that."

"Simon, don't be a snob. Go be with Kaylee. I will be fine here." She stepped closer to him and lowered her voice to match his. "I know… I understand that I was wrong. Last night. I was wrong. I won't do anything like that again. I will behave." She looked down at the floor. "You… you don't have to worry about me."

He put a hand on her chin. She resisted, but he made her look him in the eye.

"I will always worry about you."

This made her smile, and she let him hug her. Simon's mind went back to Kaylee's tirade, and he understood that this couldn't go on forever. He may always worry about River, but he wouldn't be able to solve her problems with a hug. Despite her stature, she wasn't a little girl.

"Go," she said, and she pushed him away. "Go be with Kaylee. And don't worry. Whatever you do, it'll get lost in the background." She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, to the multitude of rooms on the upper floors. "Saturday. No work tomorrow. This House is full of that kind of thing."

She turned and went back to her place on the sofa. As she sat down, she caught his eye for just a second and smiled. He took that smile with him and he walked down the hall, but he stopped a few meters short of the open door to the room where Kaylee waited for him. He had to think.

Simon didn't believe in being rash. It was idiotic to make an important decision when he was so tired, and this was indeed an important decision. Tori had been right about his priorities. But Kaylee had been right about Tori's short-comings. Which was the more important factor?

He shook his head. He should wait until morning – things might seem different when he could think clearly. But, even as he told himself that, he knew he'd decided already. In the pit of his stomach, he was sure, and no amount of arguing or rationalizing was going to change things. He was committed to his life on _Serenity_, more so than he'd realized. It would take a lot to make him leave. It would take more than Victoria Zhou and her modern, expensive clinic had to offer.

Simon smiled to himself and relaxed against the wall as a weight lifted off of him. This felt right, no matter what logic dictated. This felt good. Now, he could stop torturing himself with indecision and deal with some other unsettled business he had with _Serenity_'s mechanic.

– – –

Four and a half hours ago, en route to the House

For a second, Kaylee's mouth pursed and she looked back down the street toward the clinic. Simon looked too, but all he saw was a woman huddled in the shadows of the next building down, just some local who'd gone out to take in the cool night air and found herself in the middle of a spat.

Kaylee muttered something Simon couldn't hear: a few very bad words aimed at Tori, he guessed.

"I guess I should'a figured," Kaylee said in a louder voice, and her shoulders relaxed. She blew out a frustrated breath and took another long look, this time at him. Simon had to turn his eyes away; she looked almost pleased, like some good opinion of him had been proven.

When they walked on, Kaylee leading and Simon following, it was at more relaxed pace.

"I really _definitely_ should'a known," she said after they'd covered some distance. "Tori told me something else about you – about you back in school – and I knew that was a lie."

_More lies? _Simon wondered. "What? What'd she say?"

Kaylee glanced over her shoulder once to smile at him. "I can't be sharin' girl talk. There's a kind'a code you know."

Simon sighed in relief – her tone was teasing. Whatever this new matter was, it wasn't serious. Maybe there was no more need for serious talk now, or serious thought.

He hurried a few steps to catch up with Kaylee. "If she's telling lies about me, then there can't be any kind of code involved."

"Now, just cause she's a big fat liar don't mean I ain't honorable myself."

She tossed her head back, maybe doing her best to walk like an honorable woman with her chin lifted and shoulders thrown back. But a smile played at the corner of her mouth.

Simon smiled along with her. "You can at least give me a hint…"

"She was makin' up slander about you, is what I think."

"Slander?"

"Yep. I know cause since we got to Highgate I've had a few experiences that make me kind'a an expert on the matter."

A few experiences? Kaylee's tone and the way her eyes cut sideways to him made it pretty clear what those experiences entailed, and it didn't put Simon at ease. What could be worse than having his present and previous lovers comparing notes on his performance?

"So," he said uncomfortably, "I guess you mean to say that these experiences you've had were… "

"I don't think I need to explain, since you were there too."

"Oh." He scratched his head. "Yes. But I was… you know, I was pretty tired. And distracted. So much has been going on."

"Mm-hmm."

"And when there's so much going on, sometimes it's hard to keep track of everything. So feedback is… well, it's very important."

Suddenly Kaylee stopped – he realized that they'd arrived at the House. "Well, doctor, I will give you all the feedback you're needin' just as soon as I get a chance. Meantime, we got a bit more important work to do."

He sobered up immediately. "Yes. It's time to get the captain."

"You think Jayne got us a ship to use?" Kaylee asked.

"I certainly hope so." He held up his hand and looked at the Takara cap, which was carefully wrapped in a paper bag. "I'll be ready…."

– – –

House of Huāzhù

Now, as Simon leaned against the wall outside the Rose Room, he figured that it was time for the feedback Kaylee had promised. He wasn't looking forward to hearing it. Kaylee wasn't shy about sex talk, wasn't one to sugarcoat criticism, and lord knows what awful things Tori had told her.

Yes, this had every sign of being an unpleasant conversation for Simon. But if he was going to stay on _Serenity_, and if he was going to continue this thing he had with Kaylee, it was best that he face the truth. That was how he'd done so well in school and as a doctor – he wasn't afraid of hard work or honest feedback. Maybe relationships with women were no different.

He took a deep breath and entered the room.

"River?" Kaylee asked as soon as she saw him.

"Busy," he explained. "Making friends."

Kaylee's face lit in a smile. "Well, good for her!"

Simon envied her joy. Only Kaylee could think of River socializing with employees of a rough mining town's whorehouse without trepidation. He wished he had such faith in people.

"She says that she's not tired, and I think she'll be all right where she is, though she may be up half the night and I never, _never_, want to know what they'll be talking about." He shut the door behind him before adding, "Which leaves you and I free to work something out."

Kaylee squinted at him, curious. "What's that?"

"I believe… " He hesitated, then took a seat on the edge of the bed. "I believe that a certain very annoying doctor gave you some information about me. Then there was the matter of your recent experiences…."

"Oh, that." She gave him a close look. "You sure you wanna talk bout it now? Ain't ya tired?"

"Heavens, yes, I'm tired. Which is why I'd rather hear it. I don't want to be lying awake imagining what horrible things she said."

Kaylee pressed her lips together and for a second he saw worry on her face, then she covered it with a smile and reached out to touch his arm. "Simon, you got to consider the source."

"What did she say?"

"It ain't important."

"That bad?"

Kaylee blew a heavy breath at his insistance, but didn't give in and tell. Instead she brightened her smile and moved across the bed toward him. "Well, I guess you got to think of it this way. Some women just don't know to handle certain things."

"Some women?"

She didn't answer right away; she was next to him now, and took deliberate care in putting one leg across his lap while wrapping the other behind him. Maybe it was his exhaustion, but again the warmth of her body had a strong effect on Simon. He wanted to wrap himself up in her and stay as long as possible. But it was nearly impossible to relax and enjoy her touch when he was waiting to hear something unpleasant and possibly humiliating.

Despite how tense he was, Kaylee managed to pull his arm around her and snuggle up next to him. Her body pressed into his side, all soft curves; it reminded him that he knew exactly what was under her shirt.

Simon quickly turned his eyes forward, trying to shake the image from his mind. Knowing something like that didn't give him automatic permission to expect a repeat. Kaylee might want nothing more than to be comforting; he had to respect that.

Although, if that's all she was after, she probably wouldn't be running a hand up over his stomach and chest in such a familiar way. She knew what he looked like under his shirt too. Maybe she was thinking about it as much as he was…

"Yeah," she finally said, right into his ear. "I been thinking about it. A woman hereabouts thinks she's tough, but I'm guessing that she just ain't up to handlin' a man like you."

Her breath warmed his neck in a heady way. He found that he had to force his words out. "A man like me?"

Her hair tickled him when she nodded.

"What exactly does that mean?" he asked.

She slid her hand from his chest up to his cheek and turned his head toward her. Her face was right in his, her hazel eyes only inches away.

"You're a _beast_, Simon."

That startled a snort out of him. "A beast?"

She nodded avidly and pressed herself closer. "In bed. You're a wild man. You're a – hey!"

Simon'd had to turn away and laugh. It was ridiculous. Doctor Simon Tam, who finished his internship in eight months, whose position at the top of his class owed much to his study habits and discipline, who made love only in well-established relationships, doing it quietly and neatly in a well made bed… this man was a _beast_?

"That's a little much," he said with a sidelong look at Kaylee.

She frowned and pulled back from him, then slapped him in the arm. "Now you gone and ruined the moment, Simon!"

"I don't mean to. I'm just saying… it's silly."

"Ain't silly Simon. Ain't nothin' like that at all. You member that first night? That first time with you and me?"

He felt blood heat his cheeks and had to look away. "Yes. I was… That wasn't really me. I was tired and worried and…"

"Wasn't _you_? Sure looked and sounded like the Doctor Tam I know."

"But I'm not usually so…"

"Beastlike?"

He smiled. The word did fit.

Kaylee smiled too, and leaned close to him again. Her hand went back to his stomach, circling there lightly, as she spoke low in his ear. "You recall me complainin' at all that night?"

He shook his head.

"You got anything to complain of for yourself?"

"No. I just… I felt… "

"You liked it, didn't you?"

He felt his face heat again.

"Come on, Simon. Tell me."

"Yes," he admitted in a soft voice. "Yes, I liked it very much."

She was whispering now, her mouth close to his ear again. "That's cause you're more than some proper doctor, Simon. Hidden inside a' here, deep down, is a wild, untamed _shòu_ just waitin' to come out."

He couldn't help smiling again. "Is that what Tori said?"

"Tori wouldn't know a chāng pī zhì if he stomped her flat, and wouldn't be able to handle one in any case."

He wasn't able to laugh at that, because she turned his head toward hers again. There was barely a touch of her lips brushing his, then another.

"But you know how?" he asked.

"How bout you try me an' see?"

And she kept her mouth close to his, teasing, until he did just that. He pulled her closer and kissed her. Hard. Deep and messy and wet and hurried. And then she was on his lap, just like she'd been that night in the galley, but this time he didn't have to worry about anyone walking in. This time he could just let go and enjoy it.

"Out a' control _wild_ man," Kaylee managed to say as he shifted her sideways and stretched out over her. "You sex me up just right, Simon..."

At another time, he might have found her words ridiculous, but right now she was clutching at his shoulders and pulling at his shirt and rolling her hips beneath him. Simon found his hand tangling in her hair, grabbing hold, and on a whim he pulled her head back to bare her throat to his lips.

She grunted, so he let go immediately. "Sorry," he gasped. "I'm sorry!"

She slapped at his arm again. "Ruined moment, Simon."

"Really?"

In answer, she guided his hand back to her hair. Simon took a more careful hold.

"Go on!" she told him.

He pulled again – though he was gentle, she arched up with nearly her whole body, offering her neck to him. Simon wasn't about to refuse that.

A busy few moments later, Kaylee made a suggestion. "You ought'a tear my shirt off now."

He lifted his head to catch her eye. "Tear your… ?"

She nodded vigorously. "Well, maybe not _tear_ xactly…. Careful a' the buttons – just grab here and yank real quick… Like that… Yeah…"

– – –

Back in the settlement

Victoria Zhou folded her arms in front of her and leaned over the booth's worn wooden table, moving carefully to avoid getting splinters in her arms. This place was a dump. She'd tried going home, but her mind was racing too much to handle solitude and quiet. She generally liked being alone, but at times like these she preferred being alone in the company of others, even if it was a bunch of rowdy drunken miners on a Saturday night in the Salty Tongue Saloon.

They left her alone. Folks around here knew who she was, and they knew better than to hassle her. And they knew that her clinic was closed Sundays – it did no harm to sip a few pints while she sorted her thoughts out.

She hoped she'd done the right thing with Simon. He was in a touchy situation, and would be easily frightened away. She'd taken a risk in being pushy with him, trying to set him at odds with the young mechanic. But it might work, and if it did…

What a boon it would be, to have a surgeon like Simon on her staff. She'd have never thought she could get a talent like him to work here, on this world, with these people.

She sipped her ale and glanced around the bar. They were like children, in a way. Hapless, clueless, helpless little children. They didn't know how to take care of themselves, and no one else would do it. This was her cause, and hers alone. Tori knew exactly what she was – a true humanitarian. Not a single one of the highbrow elite she'd gone to school with were willing to sacrifice their own comfort and glory, to leave their home worlds and come to a coarse, rough-and-tumble place like this and help those whohad no other recourse.

As far as Tori was concerned, she was the only true hero of all those she'd known at MedAcad. Except possibly Simon. He may have been forced into it, but he'd found it in himself to make sacrifices for his sister. He had potential.

Tori's thoughts were interrupted when a man approached her table. He didn't look like the usual miner; he was better looking than most and far too clean. His skin – though naturally a dark shade that he must have inherited with his thick black hair and dark eyes – hadn't been dried up and lined by the hot sun of the Flat. He was wearing all black, as if he was either a storybook villain or a good guy in disguise.

Her interest in his appearance turned to annoyance when he slid into the far side of her booth without even asking.

"Hi," he said cheerfully. "Name's Billy."

"That's nice, Billy," she replied flatly. "Go away."

His smile didn't waver at all. "I know what you're sayin'. I wouldn't xactly welcome the attentions of the kind of bums I'm seein' here. But I ain't like that. You see, I got some business to do, and I'd like to humbly ask a bit of a favor of you, Doctor."

She sighed – she should have figured. The needs of these people could never be met. Which was why she needed Simon. "If it's a medical emergency, out with it. Otherwise, I'm off the clock."

"Nothing medical, no emergency of any sort. I just heard that a certain friend of mine is doing business hereabouts. Me and Malcolm Reynolds were close way back when, and I'd sure like to catch up with him."

That name made her tense. What had Simon brought on her? First a little sister with talents for burglary, now what?

"Why do you ask me?"

"Well, I've been hoping to run into Mal, but all I've seen is a few of his crew. Just now I recognized a little lady who fine-tunes the workings of his ship. Kaylee. I saw you were talking to her and her doctor friend earlier tonight, and I thought maybe you could help out–"

"Why don't you talk to them yourself?"

Billy sighed. "That is a tricky one. Kaylee… well… " He dropped his eyes, like he was embarrassed, but Tori didn't buy it. She'd guess that he was actually rather tickled over whatever he was about to say. "You see, I once spent some time on Mal's ship, and Kaylee… well, she got a little sweet on me. She's a pretty thing and nice as can be, but not my type. Thing was, she just wouldn't take no. She kept leaving love letters for me, and crying all the time when I didn't answer back how she wanted. I actually left the ship because I felt so bad for her. And just now, I saw her looking so happy, all smiles with the young doctor…"

He paused and she realized that he was watching her closely. She did her best to control her reaction, but couldn't help wondering – were those two happy together after she talked to them? Had her plan failed so quickly?

Billy must have seen something in her face; he smiled and chuckled before he went on. "Well, if those two really are a pair of lovebirds, it warms my heart. I'd hate to mess that up for sweet little Kaylee. So you see my situation. I'd like to find Mal, and I figure he's here, since his crew is walkin' the streets, but I ain't seen his ship anywhere."

"You won't. It's been impounded."

"Impounded?" The man's mouth fell open in shock. "Why?"

She didn't believe his shock. In fact, she had a strong feeling that he knew about this already. "I'm a doctor, not a police officer."

"Well then, I bet Mal's in need of some help, which I surely could offer."

"You should. I'm sure his crew would appreciate that." She drained her beer and started to slide out of the booth, but stopped when a strong hand grabbed her arm.

"It'd sure be easier if you'd tell me how to find them."

"You seem the enterprising type, Billy. I think you can manage."

"But I'm in a bit of a hurry. I can make it worth your while."

"How's that?"

"Let's say I have powerful friends."

She settled back into her seat, but gave the hand grasping her arm a hard look. She wasn't about to be bullied by this creep, no matter how big he thought his friends were.

He let go of her.

"Clearly you aren't out for a social visit, Billy."

"You're a smart woman."

"You're a terrible liar. And your speech has cleaned up quite a lot since you first sat down. You're from the Core."

He smiled. "Glad you noticed. I'd prefer dropping the act – I don't enjoy playing an idiot just to blend in. Yes, I'm from the Core. But I like it better out here." He looked around, then spread his arms in a stretch and grinned. "Freedom, you know. Nothing like it."

"There is freedom, but there's also long work days, which I've had plenty of this week. Let me be clear: I don't care who your friends are. I don't care why you're after Malcolm Reynolds. My encounter with that crew is over, and it really didn't amount to much. I had a visit with an old school friend, one I don't even like very much and I doubt I'll ever see again."

Billy's grin disappeared and he leaned toward her threateningly. "No, you won't, because your school friend is traveling with a wanted man. They'll all be in lock up before long. Now – do you want to benefit or risk being counted as an accomplice?"

Tori felt her face heat with alarm – could that actually happen? "I'm leaving," she said firmly. "Don't try to stop me again. People here know who I am, and they will defend me."

He managed to squeeze in one more question as she stood up. "You say you don't even like the doctor. Why protect him?"

She looked down at him. "I like you even less."

But, as she walked out of the bar, she had to admit that the slippery Billy had given her much to think about.

– – –

Meanwhile, at the settlement landing pad…

Inara Serra sighed as she pulled the hatch of her transport closed behind her. Her first day on Highgate had been short and very nearly fruitless. She'd landed in the evening and gone straight to the local security office, registering her ship using the cover Mr. Universe had provided for her.

A plumber. She sighed again – that story had caused a few moments worry for her. But, luckily, the officers she'd met were more interested in how a pretty woman got into plumbing then in her proposed area of expertise. Inara could handle those questions; she could invent a character for herself, a background something similar to Kaylee's, much more easily than she could talk pipe fittings. And she was easily able to use the men's curiosity, to charm them into talking about their own daily business.

And so she'd found out that _Serenity_ had indeed been impounded. It was being held on a lot a kilometer northwest of the settlement, and wouldn't be released until the owner came forward to answer some questions.

So the owner was here. He must be. Inara had spent the night walking the town, trying to be invisible as she checked into the hot spots where locals gathered to celebrate their weekend. She hadn't seen any sign of the crew.

But they were here, she was sure of it. Tomorrow morning she'd start fresh, and she'd find them.

– – –

Translations  
huāzhù: style, as in female organ of flower  
guài wu: monster; freak  
cōng míng rútóng yīgè zhăngjí: smart as a slap  
kòu de lè qù joy button  
shòu: beast; quadruped  
chāng pī zhì: wild stallion

– – –

_Not my strongest chapter ever, maybe, but I had things to tie up. Threw them all into one place, and now that business is done and it's time to move on!_


	19. Chapter 19

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

_The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money. _

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

* * *

**Chapter 19.**

House of Huāzhù, Highgate

When waking up on a strange world, it's nearly impossible to guess the time.

Zoë didn't like that. She had a few habits dating back to her earliest days as a little girl on a sharply run military vessel, one of which was to know as much as possible about your situation. Too much information isn't likely to hurt you, but too little surely will.

Still, she couldn't make herself untangle from Wash's arms and search the small room for the timepiece she'd thrown aside with her clothes. She could only lay still and study the large daisy-like orange flowers on the walls and ceiling. The paint glowed in diffuse sunlight that thin yellow curtains did little to dim; it was bright enough in here to be midday.

Which it might very well be. The weight of a long, long sleep laid heavily on her body and mind. She could easily give into it and stay here all day, basking in laziness (and bright orange flowers). But this wasn't the time for a day off; she had to get the ship back.

She could tell by her husband's breathing that he wasn't asleep. Not fully, anyway.

"Wash," she said into the quiet room.

He snorted out of his doze and lifted his head. "Hunh?"

"Think it's late?"

He plopped his face back into the pillow and tightened his hold on her waist. "Mmmm. Very late. But do not by any means panic and do something stupid. Like leave the bed. They'd have come knocking if they needed us. We've got privacy for a bit longer, I bet…" He made his interest plain by nuzzling into her neck.

"Yeah," she said thoughtfully. "Shepherd would've told me if the captain was up."

Wash sighed, perhaps at her choice of topic, then let go of her and rolled onto his back.

"Think that cap thing will work?" she asked.

"I certainly hope so. Having Mal think he's a six year old is just too creepy to imagine."

"Not to mention what a pain it is dealing with him not knowin' anything." She shook her head. She'd meant to speak lightly, but just couldn't do it. "Every damned day, Wash. Every time he woke up we had to go through it again. Sometimes he didn't even have to sleep – he'd just sit there all quiet for a spell, and when he looked around again I could see it was all gone, his knowin' of the present. And his past was lost a little bit, too. All those years, slippin' away…"

Wash shifted to look at her again, then lifted himself up on one elbow. His free hand snaked under the covers to caress her bare stomach. "It must have been rough. Nothing to do but watch that happen, for three long days. And not knowing where we were, when we were coming for you…"

Zoë stared up the cracked but colorful ceiling. Even Wash's limited understanding of what it'd been like on that moon made her suddenly want to crack up a bit herself. The pain of those days had been more than watching the Mal she knew slowly disappear; she'd been dragged back into the past with him, forced to recall a shared history that she'd barely survived the first time through.

Wash gave her ribcage a gentle pat. "You want to talk about it?"

"Nope," she said firmly, but she took his hand in hers and squeezed it – a thanks for asking. "I'll tell you what I want. This world had themselves a Saturday night last night, meaning that today's Sunday. Those security offices, the parking police you ran afoul of, might not open for some time. Might not open all day. So there ain't no point in hurryin' out right this minute."

Wash grinned and kissed her cheek. "My smart wife. And might I add that we've more than likely slept through the local Sunday services, but we could make up for it. There's this rule that cleanliness is next to godliness – we should find out if our room and board in this fine establishment includes bathing privileges. And I mean bathing in a tub for two."

Zoë matched his grin. She needed one more spell of respite before the day's business began in earnest. Sunday or not, she meant to deal with the situation today. But what could another hour's delay hurt?

She gave Wash a lingering kiss. "How bout you look into that. I'll check in with the rest of our bunch."

– – –

Will spat in the dust, then took another slow puff on his fat brown cigar. He wasn't normally one for smoking in the middle of the day. Honestly, he didn't like the taste much unless there was a strong drink to go with it. But he kept a box of slow burning stogies on hand for situations like this. A man sitting against a building by his lonesome draws attention; the same man blowing smoke is easily ignored. Everybody knows that nothing makes a person loiter in the outdoors like need for smoke.

Or, need to keep a lookout, which was Will's real purpose. The monstrous green house across the way from him was quiet, but the crew of _Serenity_ was in there. Some of them, anyway. What Ginger had overheard between the doctor and the mechanic last night made it clear that the captain hadn't been with them then, but they were sending for him. Reynolds might be in that House by now. Just a few handfuls of meters away, but it did no good. Will couldn't go in the House to have a look. _Serenity_'s crew would recognize him, and they'd put up a fight.

"And the damned she-doctor won't help us get to him," Will muttered to himself. "Sāobī."

Ginger would have the same problem, no matter that she thought different. She'd started spouting ideas last night, plans of how she could get into the whorehouse to look for Reynolds. She'd gotten this grin on her face that wouldn't go away, no matter how he told her she was an idiot and it'd never work. She didn't listen. When he got up this morning, he found that she'd run off already, left their transport ship on her own business.

As if she had any such thing. And here he was, stuck with the boring job. Stuck doing the lookout.

Motion caught his eye, and he dropped his head and slouched back into the shade of the building. A gang of men was coming along the dust on the far side of the street. Men in uniform, though they weren't walking like they were on a job.

Will slid his eyes sidewise to study them close without being obvious. They were company drones, part of the security detail of this settlement. He sneered in disgust; these men were not beholden to the real power of the verse – the Alliance. Nor were they backed up by it. They only had power within their company's domain on this world, but like bullies ruling a tiny sandbox they clearly thought highly of themselves. Their black and tan uniforms were crisp and relatively free of dust, and each man had a multitude of sleek and shiny weapons hanging from his belt, as if his hardware was an indication of what he hid in his pants.

But wouldn't be hiding for long, Will surmised. Every one of the five corporate lawmen had a skip in his step and a big smile on his mug, and rugged, eager laughter rang out as they took a sharp turn, following a well worn path to the front entrance of the House of Huāzhù.

– – –

Zoë reclined in a bubbly tub, enjoying a toe massage while her own fingers dug into Wash's arches. This was surely worth an hour's delay, especially since no one else was up and moving yet.

While Wash had prepared the hot water and bartered for add-ins to make it foamy and sweet-smelling, she'd checked on the crew. Though it was a good hour past noon local time, none of them were in a hurry to start their day. Well, she couldn't exactly say that of Jayne, since she hadn't found him. She assumed he was somewhere in this house, but wasn't about to go knocking on doors. Might walk in on something she hoped never to see with her own eyes.

But she'd seen to the rest. Mal was still sleeping, the silvery Takara cap tightly covering his head and hopefully doing its healing work. Book had nodded to Zoë when she looked in; the preacher sat against the wall at the foot of Mal's bed, sipping tea and reading.

Kaylee and Simon were in their own room, just as deeply asleep as the captain. They were twisted around each other in a very messed-up bed, their clothing scattered all over the room as if it'd been thrown off in a frenzy. Zoë'd smiled at the sight and quietly closed the door behind her. Apparently, whatever confusion those two might have had between them last night, they'd found a way to work it out.

She'd found River in the common room by the front door, sleeping on a large, plush sofa. A kindly employee of the House had smiled at Zoë and assured her that River was fine where she was. Seemed that River had stayed up half the night talking, and she'd made a few friends.

"This the one made the fuss at the clinic?" the blonde woman had asked Zoë in a whisper. She'd laughed when Zoë'd only dropped open her mouth then snapped it shut again. "Word travels, honey," the woman'd said. "Though I gotta say it must'a been blown up a bit. This little girl here wouldn't hurt a bug. She's a bit odd, but nice as they come."

Smiling as she recalled the woman's words, Zoë let go of Wash's foot and tipped her head back against the warm porcelain of the tub. "I'm thinkin' it's best if we get River off this world soon," she said.

"How's that?"

"Girl's makin' waves. Befriending the ladies in this House may be fun and all, but it's like to start gossip. Whole town'll know where we are before long."

"Okay, but let's go back to that Sunday issue. If the whores aren't doing business this afternoon, do you really think the parking police are?"

Zoë lifted her head up and focused on him. "I'm thinking that maybe it's best if we don't bother. Goin' by the book means goin' by _their_ book, and that means they'll want to know all kinds of info. Where we've been, where we're goin', who we got on board, if we got a petite little thing with long dark hair and a history of beatin' up security guards. That's some hoops we don't wanna be jumpin' through."

Wash nodded emphatically. "Amen."

"So, way I see it, we got two things need doin'. One – we get to the ship and get on it. They may have locked it up against us, but I'm thinkin' that won't stop Kaylee for more than the time it takes to sneeze."

"But we don't know where it is."

"Impoundment lot is a klick northwest of town. River's new friend told me."

"That was helpful. All right then – job two?"

"The landing lock. We got to find the controls and shut it down long enough to get into orbit and out of this company's reach."

"Doesn't seem complicated."

"Not at all. So what I'm thinkin' is that you and Kaylee–"

She was interrupted by the door of the bathroom slamming open. The house madam stepped right into the cloud of steamy air.

"I want you out!" the woman ordered.

Wash modestly sank into the bubbles so that only his head showed, but Zoë glared at the intruder.

"Didn't our man Jayne pay up for the whole day?"

"You can have your money back. It ain't worth the trouble. I have costumers at my door – men of the law, and I won't have them finding you and your girl here!"

– – –

Will took a slow, roundabout path to cross the street. It wouldn't surprise anyone that a guy out for a casual smoke got curious about a gang of lawmen held up at the door of a whorehouse, but Will didn't want to be too obvious. It was best that the mens' attention stayed on the whore blocking the House's entrance.

"Just be a second," the blonde woman was saying with an uncomfortable laugh when Will got within earshot. "We weren't expectin' no business yet today."

One of the men – the apparent leader – frowned like a boy who'd dropped his ice cream cone. "It's the only chance we got!" he told her earnestly. "It's a rare day we get called down planetside. But you girls are lucky – there's been crime hereabouts of late, and you got a chance for some extra coin."

He made to step forward, but the woman held her spot. She was almost charming as she smiled and blinked at him, but she was clearly stalling. "Crime, you say?"

"Nothing to worry over, just a fuss at that crazy lady's clinic. Now, I hope you're not telling us the House is closed on our one free day…."

"Oh no! For you boys, we're as open as we get." She laughed again in a forced way, then turned and opened the door just enough to peek inside. Whatever she saw made her turn right back and pull the door shut behind her. "Just… just need to clean up a smidgen. Wild night last night."

The man reached over her shoulder and pushed at the door. "We don't care about a mess, honey. We're not here to inspect for dust bunnies."

The blonde set her shoulder against the door frame and didn't budge. "But it's a matter of our pride."

Will lost track of the conversation when someone tapped his shoulder. He turned, expecting a curious neighbor asking what was the fuss, but what he saw made him drop his half smoked cigar in the dirt.

The woman's hair was as bright red as the red swirl of a candy cane, and had been pulled back in a messy way that left tendrils of it curling against her neck. Her eyes, gray eyes normally down turned or hidden in a frown, were heavily outlined in black, and her lips and cheeks were painted to nearly match her hair.

But the real attention-getter was a bit lower down. A brown and purple bodice was pulled so tight over the woman's ribs that what the good lord had given her was nearly pouring out over the dress's lace edged top. Will's eyes traveled lower – her body wasn't looking so plump as usual, what with the pushing up and pulling in and a flared skirt of some kind of floofy fabric that rode out over her hips. If he didn't know better, Will might have thought Ginger looked like a regular woman, though a trollopy one. But he'd be damned if he'd let her know he thought so.

"Well, that's fitting for a Sunday afternoon," he drawled.

Ginger's jaw set tight, but then – Gods by his witnesses – she smirked and cut her eyes at him like some teenaged coquette. "Mayhap you ain't noticed, Will, but folks hereabouts like to walk the streets in their finest on their day off." She pet a hand over the fat pleats of her skirt, as if to illustrate what exactly she meant by "finest".

Will's frown deepened; she was taking this costume way too much to heart. "They walk the streets to say hi to neighbors," he hissed at her, "not to market their chòu ji bai. Ladies out for that keep themselves in their place of business." He bent to pick up his half-lit cigar, then looked toward the House – the men were still deep in conversation with the blonde.

"Which is the reason for the disguise," Ginger said, not backing down. "Now, I'll just go up and ask for a tour. I can say I got a friend told me–"

Will turned his back to the House and grabbed Ginger's arm to pull her close. "Mayhap _you_ ain't noticed, but this is not the time to be knocking." He tipped his head aside a bit so she could see the men in uniform. She frowned, and behind the heavy makeup her eyes turned calculating.

"That does change things a mite," she said.

"Come on." He pulled her toward the side of the House, out of the mens' view.

"Might make it easy," she whispered. "They might grab Reynolds for us."

"They're not interested in him," Will replied shortly. He pulled up against the short side wall of the House. "They're interested in the kind of thing you look like you're selling. They could be in there all day, right in our way."

He glanced around the corner – the men were still there, getting impatient by now.

"Hell," Will went on. "They don't even know Reynolds is a wanted man. They don't know a damned thing, but they think they're hot shit and they're just looking for a chance to prove it. If we let on who we really are, that we're here for a fugitive the Alliance put a price on, they'd make things complicated for us. We'd best wait till they clear out, then we'll see what…"

He stopped at sounds coming from behind the House: an opening door and hushed voices. Grateful that he was on the shady side of the building, he stepped up to the corner and peeked around.

Quickly, he turned back and grabbed Ginger by the arm. He pressed his cigar into her hand and shoved her around the corner toward a low bench set against the back wall of the House.

"Maybe this new look of yours might come in handy after all," he said in a hurried whisper. "Sit your ass right there. Keep your eyes down and your ears open."

– – –

"Couldn't it wait two minutes?" Jayne muttered sourly. "I was just bout done…"

"Haven't you had enough of that?" River asked.

"Hush," Zoë told them both, then she looked around at the disheveled crew gathered in the House's kitchen. "No one's left anything behind?"

"Don't have much to leave," Wash said. "Oh – except all your camping gear that's still in the madam's private limo."

Zoë pulled open the House's back door and looked over to the transport ship that was still parked where they'd left it last night. "It's gonna have to stay," she said. "The ladies are welcome to it. Everyone get outside, double time. Them guards'll be comin' in any minute now…"

She waved everyone out and held the door while the half-awake crew passed. Simon was buttoning his shirt and Kaylee was hopping as she pulled a boot on. Jayne was only partly dressed as well, though in less of a hurry about covering up. River was stumbling along sleepily, rubbing her eyes. But the captain was the groggiest of them all. He absently scratched at his head, rubbing at little red sleep lines that the wires of the Takara cap had left near his hairline. He only got through the door because Book pulled him along by an elbow.

Wash was the last. He gave Zoë a nod and she lead the group away from the door, out toward the parked transport. She paused there to check on Mal – she needed to know his condition before taking him out amongst strangers. This was a safe spot for a few minutes at least. The door they'd just come through opened out from the house's large kitchen where the security men were not likely to go, and there was no one in the small backyard except for a plump red-haired whore having herself an afternoon smoke.

Zoë grabbed Mal by a shoulder and gave him a firm shake.

"Malcolm! Wake up. You know who I am?"

His sleepy eyes focused on her, then crinkled in confusion. Her heart sank until he replied, "Course I do. You're that friend of mom's, takin' me to a doctor." His lips stretched to the side in a mischievous grin. "Just wait till I tell her where you _really_ took me."

Zoë exhaled in relief – he hadn't lost his memories of yesterday while he slept.

"What's the last thing you recall?" Simon asked. The doctor had his shirt tucked in and was beginning to look more like his respectable self – except for some little red bite marks on his neck.

Mal saw it too, and his grin widened. "Mornin', Doctor. Slept well, I take it?"

"Answer the question, Malcolm," Zoë ordered.

Mal flashed her an look: _Yeah yeah, I'm getting to it._ "Last I recall before being on the moon with you and the Shepherd? I was at home. Gettin' ready to leave though. I'm joinin' up with the Independent Army, an account of how them Core government folks wanna–"

"Enough," Zoë interrupted. "That'll do for now. We got to get some distance." She checked that her carbine was in place – she'd had to dress quickly, once her bath was interrupted. And now she had to think fast. To gain herself a moment, she went into the House's transport and dug through one of the boxes she'd had on the moon. It'd been cold and rainy there, so she and Book had brought plenty of extra clothing. She had just the thing…

She came back out and threw a large, hooded parka at River. "Put it on and keep the hood up," she ordered, then addressed the whole group. "All right, folks, we can't go walkin' about as a crowd. That draws eyes in a place that ain't so used to strangers. First thing – River's got to be hidden away, fast as possible."

"No one will know me," River said cheerfully. The parka couldn't have been comfortable in the hot sun, but it did hide her shape and hair.

"The men in the House are the ones called down to look for you," Zoë said. "It appears they don't take the job too seriously, but there might be more about, them as ain't into spending their Sunday buyin' a woman. I ain't takin' a risk someone happens on you."

"I know where we can go," Simon said. "The clinic. It's closed today, so no one will be there but Tori – she said she spends Sunday on record keeping and maintenance. I wanted to go by anyway, if I got the chance." He caught Kaylee's eye. "I have a message to deliver, and River does too."

River stared an accusation at her brother, then folded her arms and huffed. Her face was set in anger, but she didn't say anything.

"You think that's safe, Simon?" Kaylee asked.

"It needs to be done," he replied firmly.

"Well then, you want me to… Can I come along?"

"No, Kaylee," Zoë interjected. "I need you. Simon, you sure?"

"Absolutely."

Zoë nodded. "Fine. You two go on. But for the good lord's sake don't be makin' another mess for me to handle." She caught River's eye and held it until the girl blushed and looked away. "Before we split up," Zoë went on, "we should have a meeting place. Just in case…"

"The pub," Kaylee suggested. "The one we first met Tori at."

Simon nodded. "The Salty Tongue. It's just a block east of here."

"That'll work," Zoë said. "Anyone got nowhere else to go, head for the pub. Let's all be there at sunset tonight in any case. Now, go on, Simon. Get your sister out of sight."

Simon hesitated and looked toward Kaylee, but seemed to decide that whatever he wanted to say could wait. Or maybe it just shouldn't be said in company. Either way, he and River departed without a further word.

The Tams dealt with, Zoë turned to Kaylee. "You and Wash need to get on the ship – he's got an idea of where to find her. Do whatever you need to get on board. Don't power up the engines, but see if there's a landin' lock that needs dealin' with. And turn on the comm. I might find a way to send a wave."

"What are you doin'?" Kaylee asked.

"Once I get Mal settled–"

"-colm. Mal_colm_," Mal corrected.

"Once I get Malcolm settled, I'll be goin' by the security offices, see if they open at all today."

"But, honey," Wash interrupted. "I thought you weren't going to risk–"

"I'll be careful," Zoë said. "I'll just suss the situation, see what's to be done."

"What if they decide to arrest you, and we don't even know? We don't have comms. If you don't show up tonight…"

Zoë set her hand on his arm. "Quit worryin' and move. It might take you and Kaylee an hour to find the impoundment lot. It's best you get walkin'."

Wash frowned.

"I'll be careful," she repeated emphatically. "I'll take someone along as a lookout. Anything bad happens, at least you'll know."

He nodded and turned to lead Kaylee away, though he didn't look happy about the situation.

Zoë took in a deep breath – now she was left with only Book, Jayne, and Mal. Mal_colm_, she amended in her thoughts as she glanced at the captain. He'd wondered aside, completely bored by the conversation, and was humming to himself as he kicked at the foot of the bench where the red-haired whore'd been having her smoke. The lady'd gone on her way by now.

No matter that his face hadn't changed, this wasn't the Captain Mal Reynolds Zoë knew. The shortened name didn't fit him anymore, nor did the title. But at least he wouldn't be losing more of his day-to-day memories, and maybe once they got back on the ship Simon'd be able to start bringing the real Mal back. The Takara cap had done something right to him, and that was a start.

– – –

Ginger knew what needed to be done as soon as the dark skinned woman set a meeting place.

Well, Ginger'd suspected what needed to be done much before that. As soon as she sat down and took a long look at the group assembled in the small yard, as soon as she saw that one of them was Malcolm Reynolds, she knew the game was up. They had him.

But she stayed a bit longer, puffing at Will's chewed up cigar while she thought about it. It was only the two of them, herself and Will, against this whole group. They couldn't just grab Reynolds; a fight would ensue, and they were outnumbered. Nor could they enlist the help of the local lawmen – those vermin didn't deserve the name. They were inside this very house right now, spending their Sunday afternoon enforcing something that sure as hell wasn't law.

She and Will needed to be careful about this. They needed to get the captain alone, unguarded, and sneak him away before his crew could do a thing about it.

She was just pondering that when the tall woman set the Salty Tongue as a meeting place, and Ginger knew what needed to be done. She dropped the cigar and ground it beneath the heel of her boot, (her disguise didn't include uncomfortable footwear – no job was worth that) then rose and slipped around the corner of the building.

She filled Will in as they walked toward the street.

"You have a gun hidden in there?" Will asked with a sweeping look at her.

"Course." Ginger patted her thigh. She'd cut a slit in the seam of her full skirt so she easily reach in and grab her handgun.

"Good. You have to get to this Tongue place. Settle in like you've been there all day."

"As if I didn't already figure that's the best plan," she muttered.

Will frowned at her. "I think that dye had an effect on your head. You're still an agent of the Alliance, Ginger Larkin. See that you act like it: follow orders, and don't talk sass. Come here."

He reached out and slid a few fingers under the top edge of her bodice, right in the deep valley where her bosom was pressed together and up. He yanked her toward him, but before she could make a fuss he clipped a small comm mic onto the lace and let her go.

"And here's the earpiece. You tell me what's happening in that pub, every minute. Tell me if Reynolds is alone."

She nodded and fit the receiver into her ear. As she turned to hurry down the street, Will called after her: "And don't go trying to sell anything. You couldn't charge the price of a shot of whiskey anyhow!"

– – –

Inara didn't understand it. The people of the settlement were barely helpful to her, replying to her questions with suspicious looks followed by shrugs and surly _I-dunno_'s. Unlike the company security guards, the inhabitants of the settlement – miners and their families – seemed to suspect that she wasn't what she presented herself to be.

Maybe it was her clothing. In order to avoid technical discussions of her pretended trade, she'd changed back into the clothes she'd bought the night she'd fled Sihnon: baggy brown trousers, a dark reddish-brown shirt, and a cape of dark grey worsted wool. Her outfit was dull and colorless, her hair was tied back but not too neatly, she wore no make-up. She hadn't even washed her face. So why did they all know that she didn't belong? Was it simply that she was a strange face?

The afternoon was at its hottest when she decided to take a break. The food supply on her transport was running low already, so she stopped at a marketplace for supplies.

There weren't many options. Besides some mysterious grilled meat which she wasn't about to go near, all she could find was powdered protein soup. The old woman running the stall gruffly named a price, and Inara held out a few coins without looking up, trying to keep her face hidden in her hood. She found herself standing awkwardly in that pose; instead of taking the payment, the vendor made a clucking noise as if she'd just figured out something important.

"Xiăo jie," the old lady said, her voice suddenly smoothed out in a deferential way. "I can get ya plenty that's more hăo chī. A lady like you don't need to be suppin' on the likes a' that."

Inara froze, not sure what had given her away. "No, this is all I want," she answered shortly, and she held the coins out further.

"Suit ye'self," the woman said. She took the pay, and Inara saw the problem. Her hand was spotless and silken next to old woman's gnarled fingers, nails neatly shaped and filed and not a single callous or crack to mar her skin.

Inara hugged the box of soup to her chest, letting her sleeves cover her hands, and turned to flee back to her transport.

She had so little expectation of receiving a wave that she didn't check the cortex until she had her soup heating on the ship's small gas burner. But there it was – the screen blinking, a message left not twenty minutes ago. It was from the only person who would know how to find her: Mr. Universe.

"I hope you're enjoying your scenic tour of Highgate, Miss Serra the serenely scrumptious," the curly-haired young man said. "I'm afraid it may be a bit dull for someone as used to romance and adventure as you must be. But here's a bit of news – you'll have company soon. Big, big company." His eyes opened wide. "The _biggest_ kind.

"You see, the Warship _Argent_ took a sharp turn a few hours ago, and she'd be making serious waves if the Black had more in it to get wavy. I don't know what she's up to, but it's looking like something serious. The chatter between Londinium and the _Argent_ is as thick as a superhero comic book's plot." He snorted at his own joke before he continued.

"This may have nothing to do with you and our friend the captain, but I'm not a big believer in coincidences. Nobody cares about Highgate, except those who like lots of salt in their knaidel soup. The planet's been off the front page as long as I've been around. But now Mal is hiding there, you're looking for him in a hurry, and the Alliance can't get their warship to the world fast enough.

"Something is up, Inara. You might want to make nice with Mal and get out of there before that something comes back down. I'm guessing you have about four hours."

As soon as the message finished, Inara threw her cloak over her shoulders and ran out the hatch, leaving her half-cooked soup behind.

– – –

The door to the clinic was locked, and Simon had to ring the bell and wait. He waited so long that he began to think Tori had taken the day off, like a regular non-work-obsessed person, but the door opened eventually. Tori looked out at him, squinting against the bright sun.

"Well. I didn't expect to see you here again."

Simon shrugged. "I won't be long. I just have a few things I need to say. As does River."

Tori glanced at the hooded figure next to Simon, then stepped aside and swung open the door. "Come on back to the lab," she said. "I was just finishing a few things. No matter how expensive a piece of equipment is, it can't ever manage to recalibrate on its own."

She went ahead down the hall. River paused in the entryway to push her hood back and wipe sweat from her forehead, and didn't miss the chance to glare at Simon. He didn't doubt that she hated him for this, in the way of a recalcitrant teenager toward a strict parent. But what he was making her do was necessary. Absolutely.

River sighed, then dropped her parka in the waiting room and walked down the hall. Perhaps she could sense his determination: he wasn't going to let her return to _Serenity_ unless she went through with this.

Tori was busy when they reached the lab. "How is Captain Reynolds?" she asked.

"It appears that the cap is working," Simon replied. "Thank you for that. It means a lot to the crew. He means a lot to them. And I'm… I'm grateful for your help."

"I'm glad to do it. Is that what you came here to tell me? "

"Yes. Well, that and a few others things." He took in a deep breath, then fixed his sister with a hard look. She'd taken a place on a stool and was fussing with the dials on a vacuum hood. "River, you go first."

She gave Simon a dark look and mumbled something inaudible.

"You'll have to speak up," he told her firmly.

River straightened and slid her eyes to Tori. "Sorry," she said sullenly.

Simon folded his arms. That wasn't good enough, and River knew it. She sighed and her shoulders slumped, then she tried again.

"I'm sorry," she said in a truer voice, though her eyes were on the floor. "I had no right to try and steal the cap from you, no matter how bad I wanted it. No matter how bad I needed it. I was wrong to hurt Frank. I was wrong to scare those people. I'm very sorry."

"And?" Simon prompted.

"And I'll never do anything like that again. I promise. I swear."

Tori had given up on her work to study River. Her face showed no reaction, and her response was cool. "I appreciate that, River. It's not easy to admit when you're wrong."

River looked toward the door. "Can we go now?"

Simon shook his head. "In just a second. I need to tell Tori one more thing, and I want you to hear. You see, there's more than one way to do wrong." He changed his focus to Tori. "There's more than one way to hurt people. Tori, what you did the past few days, trying to come between Kaylee and I, was manipulative and… horrible. I can't believe the way you tried to play us."

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when Tori didn't deny it. She simply shrugged as if it was no big deal.

"What were you after?" he asked. "What did you think you'd gain?"

Tori fixed him with a direct stare. "A damned fine surgeon."

"Oh – I'm supposed to be flattered?"

"I don't care if you're flattered or not, Simon. I've found my calling on this world. I've found my mission in life, a way to make a difference. You could have done a lot to help me. It's a shame you can't see that."

"That's not for you to decide. I have my own work to do elsewhere."

"Ahh yes." She rolled her eyes dismissively. "Your captain."

"What, his life doesn't matter because you don't approve of how he lives?"

"No, his life doesn't matter when a hundred others have to be thrown aside for him. You could have done so much more here, Simon. Can't you see the bigger picture?"

He shook his head in disbelief. "You lied to me, lied to Kaylee, tried to destroy one of the best things I've had in my life for… for a very long time. And that's supposed to be okay because of some 'bigger picture' you've imagined?"

She stared at him thoughtfully, then rose to her feet. "Well, it doesn't matter now, does it? You're not staying. Perhaps it's for the best. Like you told me, you're a fugitive, and you've spent the past year with criminals who've been up to gods know what. I was foolish to think it'd be safe to have you here. I see that now. You've let yourself get tied up with this crew of yours, and that can't be changed." She held up a hand to stop his protest. "But I understand – you have to make your own choices. So do I."

She turned to the door of the lab, leaving Simon in a moment's confusion. He looked toward River; his sister met his gaze, then suddenly her eyes went wide.

"No," she gasped, and she pushed away from her stool so quickly that it fell over behind her. She ran for the door of the lab, which Tori was pulling shut behind her.

"No!" River repeated when she reached the door, just as it latched shut. "Not again!" She pulled at the latch, but the door wouldn't open. She looked back at Simon with desperation in her eyes. He hurried over to her – the latch wouldn't open for him either.

Through the window, he could see Tori standing in the hall.

"I'm sorry, Simon," she said, her voice barely audible through the thick glass. "But I had no choice. I'd have been implicated eventually, either with you or with whatever crimes your captain has committed. I can't let that happen." She took in a deep breath before she went on. "I contacted them this morning."

Simon felt blood drain from his face. He looked River, who was standing still now, her face ashen. "Lăo tiān yĕ…" she muttered. "No no no…"

Simon turned back to the window. "You called _who_?" he demanded.

"The reward money is substantial," Tori told him. "I'll be able to do a lot with it. I doubt I'll find anyone as skilled as you, but I can hire several doctors who are good enough."

"Not good at all," River said faintly. "They're not good."

Simon felt panic tighten his throat. "Tori – you know what those people did to her. You now what they'll do if they get her back!"

"It's a good trade, Simon. One girl in exchange for the thousands of people I'll be able to help over the next few years. How am I supposed to pass that by? Tell me – how can I in good conscience pass that by?"

River had a hand wound in her hair now, pulling, and her voice shook. "They're coming. Nightmares… "

Simon slapped his hands against the door. "Don't do this! I'll stay. Of course, I'll stay. Whatever you want!"

There might have been something like regret in Tori's eyes, but she reached her left hand out toward the keypad next to the door. "It's too late, Simon. They're on their way already. It's inevitable; you just made it easier by coming here." She looked aside as she pressed a sequence of buttons, then she turned and disappeared down the hall.

River whimpered as a hissing sound started above Simon's head.

– – –

Translations  
huāzhù: style, as in female organ of flower  
sāobī: bitch  
chòu ji bai: smelly 'c' word I won't say  
xiăo jie: young lady; miss  
hăo chī: tasty; delicious  
lăo tiān yĕ: god

– – –

_Only one to go in this Book..._


	20. Chapter 20

**Back Stories Book II**

* * *

The Firefly verse belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,  
and the rest. I'm just playing with it, and not making any money.

_Many thanks to fireflyfans members leeh, leiasky and nosadseven for beta reading. Other headers in Chapter 1._

* * *

**Chapter 20.**

Ginger slunk quietly into the Salty Tongue Saloon and took a spot at the emptiest end of the long bar. Her high and mighty attitude (she knew very well she'd had such a thing going this afternoon, on account of her new outfit) was tumbling.

It'd started with what she'd seen in the dress shop's looking glass that morning: the boning and stays in her new gown pushed her excess bits of body into a shape that wasn't half bad. Might have been more than the dress, too. Might just be that her time in that work-out center on the Alliance warship and the push-ups she did to pass the time while hiding from Will in her tiny cabin had put a little firm on top of her bones. Surely the bad mood that had her hardly eating in the past months had made those bones show in her face, and a little rouge and kohl, applied for free by the sweetheart of a lady who'd done Ginger's hair, had heightened the effect.

Her look might very well border on _cheap whore_, but that was a good five steps nearer to eye-catcher than she'd been in the past decade or two. And there was something about not being invisible that had gone straight to her head. When she'd first met Will at the House of Huāzhù, she'd been feeling somewhere between playful and invincible, and her mood had made her preen in front of him. She hadn't been flirting. Far from it – it'd been her way of giving him the finger. He'd known it too, judging from the way his eyes had moved hungrily over her new dress while his lip curled in an ugly sneer.

She should have known it would get her nothing but harsh words from the bastard. _Not worth the price of a shot of whiskey…_ She'd taken that with her chin high, but the walk over from the House of Huāzhù had gotten her feeling self-conscious in a less pleasant way. The catcalls and leering looks she'd drawn from strangers hadn't felt like compliments. Not at all.

The truth was, dressing up like this went against everything she'd ever stood for. She'd always stubbornly held to making her way on her skills, not her womanly attributes – which she'd once had some share of, whether Will'd believe it or not. Decades ago, back when she was barely of age and leaving the swamps of her homeworld to join the Alliance military, she'd been something of a looker. But that kind of attention hadn't ever done a thing for her. She'd made her choice not to lean on it, a choice she hadn't ever regretted.

And it was a choice she couldn't take back now. She wasn't young anymore, wasn't smooth-skinned and slender. Could be, she was nothing more than a fat, foolish old soldier playing pretend. More than anything, she didn't want to be seen as that.

To her relief, a medley of women were already set up in the middle of the Salty Tongue's bar, and they made her look as Plane Jane as she could wish. They were younger and finer and more colorfully dressed, and they talked loud and laughed louder as they fluttered around men like butterflies sniffing at a scattering of fat turds. Oddly, the ladies were the only ones who took obvious notice of Ginger, and that was only to eye her in a way meant to make her wilt. Ginger thought that over and figured it was fair; they were working their trade, after all, and wouldn't want to share.

She hunched over the bar and ordered up a drink like the ones those women had, something fruity in a curvy glass with plastic flowers sticking out the top, hoping she'd blend with the small crowd. It worked all right; once the dressed-up ladies saw that she kept to herself, sipping her drink through a straw and watching the door, they ignored her completely.

She was nearly through her frilly but strong beverage before the mark ambled in: Malcolm Reynolds, surrounded by three of his crew. Ginger dropped her eyes; the captain and the preacher knew her, and might recognize her face even with the makeup. But the tall woman and the big guy hadn't ever met her face to face. That was good – only two of the four had any chance of seeing through her disguise.

– – –

Jayne followed last as Zoë lead the way into the Salty Tongue. He liked the look of the place; it was windowless, dark and hazy, and a handful of colorful women provided all the decoration he needed.

Zoë paused to scan the room for the best seat and Jayne took the time to ogle; just about any of the lively whores at the bar would do him fine. No matter that his days had been full of that kind of entertainment lately, it only got his motor revved up and made it tougher to handle getting interrupted like he just had. He'd been nearly the end of a heated moment when those idiot lawmen showed up at the House. Now, Jayne was a professional, and he'd given up his sport immediately when he heard Zoë calling for him. But he had to admit, he was feeling bitter over it.

He started and got moving when he noticed Zoë leading Mal and Book across the shadowed room. She went to the furthest booth and shoved Mal into the side facing away from the door, then looked back at Jayne and pointed to the other seat.

"You keep an eye out from here," she told him in a low voice. "Y'all are just two more men wasting your Sunday afternoon away in quiet talk, got it?"

Jayne sputtered as he figured out her meaning, then he couldn't help but whine, "I gotta stay here? With him? Why can't Book do it?"

Zoë didn't budge. "I need someone with me who won't draw eyes, and if it does come to barterin' for _Serenity_'s release, I might be needin' the Shepherd to play diplomat."

Jayne glanced down at Malcolm with a look of disgust. "But I can barter. I'm better at that than babysittin'!"

"I wouldn't argue that," Book muttered, but his comment was lost behind Mal's.

"I don't need no damned watcher," the captain piped up stubbornly. "I can handle myself." He looked around the bar and puffed up his chest in such an overdone way that Jayne scoffed at him, earning a glare in return.

"I'm sure you can," Zoë told Mal. "And you better." She turned back to Jayne. "Simon and River might be comin' in before long, but it's like to be a few hours till the rest of us get back, hopefully with the ship ready to get us off this world. Meantime, you're gonna stay right here, bein' real friendly and real quiet. Got it?"

Jayne huffed, but didn't protest since Zoë was all tensed up and using her _I'm the captain now_ voice. He knew better than to argue when she was like that. He could only slide into the booth and glare darkly at her back as she led Book out the door.

Then Jayne shifted the full weight of his stare on Mal. Or, _Malcolm_ as he supposed he ought to call him. The captain's brain troubles had left him thinking he was a kid, or not a whole lot more than one. And this kid wasn't much like the man he'd once been. Malcolm tried to hold Jayne's eye, but gave up quickly.

Jayne continued to glare. He wanted his opinion of this situation known.

"So… tense times, huh?" Malcolm eventually said.

Jayne narrowed his eyes. "How d'you mean?"

"Gettin' chased out'a that House, and everyone runnin' off their way. Does make me wonder…"

"What's that?"

Malcolm met Jayne's eye again. "What kind'a work you folks do."

Jayne deepened his scowl. "Ain't none a' your business."

Malcolm nodded and looked away, and Jayne grinned. He hadn't ever able been to bully Malcolm Reynolds into silence before.

He held his glare through another uncomfortable spell of quiet, until Malcolm started fidgeting. The captain began to shift in his seat and pat himself over, like he was doing a search. He even opened up his coat to look closely at the inside of the front flaps.

"Oh, uh… hey," Malcolm eventually said. He patted the pockets of his coat again with an embarrassed smile. "Get this – I ain't got a dime on me."

"So?"

"Can't be sittin' here for hours without a drink. Ain't we supposed to blend?"

Jayne considered that. The man sitting across the booth from him looked just like _Serenity_'s captain in terms of his face and his clothes – he even had that same old coat on – but he was about as different as he could be. Jayne wouldn't say he'd ever exactly liked the old Mal, but he knew for sure he didn't like this one. Not enough to drink with him.

Besides, hassling him was more fun.

"Your momma wouldn't mind you drinkin' in a place like this?"

Malcolm looked around the room, and his jaw bent thoughtfully. "Well, ain't like she has to know."

Jayne made his words real slow, like a dare. "I think you're too young to drink."

"The hell I am!"

Jayne leaned over the table menacingly. "I think you're too young to drink with _me_."

Malcolm didn't argue that; he huffed, but shrank back in his seat and studied the table top with a frown.

Jayne sneered. He'd figured out what he wanted to know, and he'd be damned if he'd spend all day sitting in this booth with some wimpy-ass kid. He'd given up a fine finish on his afternoon tumble – one he'd paid for fair and square – and he deserved better than to spend hours playing at being the captain's best friend.

"Not when I can just as well keep a watch from afar," Jayne muttered to himself.

"Hunh?" Malcolm grunted.

"I'm gonna pass my time with the a-dults," Jayne said as he slid out of his seat. He paused to lean his full height and bulk over Malcolm. "You set foot outside this here booth, I will return you to it however I see fit. Dŏng ma?"

Malcolm's face set rebelliously for a second, then he took a look at Jayne's large fist. He sighed and rolled his eyes the littlest bit, but nodded.

– – –

Ginger was happy to see the tall woman and the preacher leave right away, and even happier when the big guy moved to the bar a few minutes later. He was immediately surrounded by the painted ladies, as if it was lunchtime in a fish tank.

That left Reynolds all alone.

She tapped at the mic pinned in the valley of her cleavage. The receiver in her ear came to life as Will answered her signal, and she quietly relayed the situation to him.

_Stay close to the merc_, Will ordered. _I want Reynolds to myself._

Ginger checked in on the captain; he was sitting with his back to the room with nothing to look at but the far wall. He didn't seem to like it; he cranked his chin over his shoulder and frowned at the mercenary, then he did the damnedest thing. He climbed up to stand in his seat, then stepped right up on the table and back down on the other side of the booth. He settled against the back wall of the bar, now comfortably able to watch the goings on.

For some reason, this made the big guy at the bar tense up and glare. Reynolds just folded his hands behind his head and grinned.

Just then, the place lit up with the clear white light of day. Ginger checked the door; Will stood there, silhouetted by the bright sun. He stayed just long enough to draw a few eyes. _The idiot has to make an entrance,_ Ginger thought. But Reynolds and his cohort didn't notice; they were still engaged in some kind of cross-the-room battle of wills, scowl versus bright smile.

Ginger sucked up the remains of her drink and slid off her barstool – she had to get close to the mercenary. But as soon as her feet hit the floor she realized how much the booze had gone to her head. She'd never been much of a drinker, and finishing this one off without a bite of food all day maybe hadn't been the smartest thing. She gritted her teeth and nodded at Will, trying to look sober as a monk.

He didn't return the gesture. His eyes passed over her on their way across the room, and then his stare fixed on Reynolds.

– – –

Once Will realized that Reynolds hadn't seen him yet, he removed the transmitter from his collar and took the receiver out of his ear; he didn't want his attention interrupted by Ginger's chatter. He slid the comm equipment into the left pocket of his long black coat. His right pocket had something in it already: his trusty sidearm, resting comfortably against the palm of his hand.

Reynolds was right-handed, that much Will remembered for sure. A bullet through the right arm would be just the thing, though Will'd have to do it before the man could draw. The captain was fast – he'd once taken down Will's quick-handed cohort Hank.

But even Reynolds couldn't beat a man who had his finger on the trigger already.

– – –

Ginger balanced herself with one hand on the bar as she made her way toward the merc. She hesitated when she came up against a solid wall of tall, willowy creatures making their sales pitches to him, but then she saw that Will was walking toward Reynolds. She had no time.

_Hell, best make use of this outfit I wasted my coin on,_ she thought, and in a somewhat less than smooth move she elbowed her way between two of the ladies and fastened herself to the big man's side.

"Hey, darlin'," she said with a forced grin. "I'm all out of a drink. Care to get me a refill?"

He looked down at her, and only the alcohol in her veins and the need to not fail the mission kept her from slouching back. The revulsion on his face was clear.

"Scuse me," he said, "but I was kind'a busy with the _fine_-lookin' ladies."

Ginger glanced to her side. Will was stepping up to the booth where Reynolds sat – the shit was taking flight _now_.

She moved quickly. With a sudden confidence she didn't know she had, she smirked at the mercenary and laid her left hand on the muscle of his forearm. At the same time, she reached her right hand down through a slit in her skirt and grabbed the gun strapped to her thigh. She deftly moved it across her body, turning slightly so no one else would see her jab the barrel into his ribs.

– – –

_Time for your worst nightmare to come back, Captain Reynolds_, Will thought with relish. He aimed his concealed gun at the captain's right arm and stepped up to the booth.

When Reynolds's eyes met his, Will's trigger finger twitched hard, but he just managed not to fire. Oddly, Reynolds didn't even move. His eyes narrowed for a second, like seeing Will made him think hard about something, but then his face relaxed.

"You lookin' for someone?" he asked. Not friendly, but not particularly unfriendly either.

Will stayed where he was, the gun still aimed from the shelter of his pocket. He didn't answer, didn't hardly breath, just waited for Reynolds to make his move.

"If you're looking for a lady, those seem to be over there." The captain pointed toward the bar.

Will grinned, understanding the game, but it was a weak one. No way was he going to turn his eyes away. "Nah," he said. "I don't need one of them. But… I was hopin' to find a certain fella." He narrowed his eyes suggestively.

Reynolds leaned back, his arms resting on the low back of the booth, no where near his holster. Will finally took his eyes off the captain's face to check his hip – no holster. No weapon there at all. Unless he was, like Will himself, hiding a surprise in his pocket, the idiot was sitting in this kind of place without a gun.

Reynolds must have noticed where Will was looking, but his reaction was nothing like what Will expected. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Look," he said, "that's flattering and all, but I ain't that flavor."

Then he looked away, like he was hoping Will would move on and that'd be the end of the conversation. Will continued to study him – the man looked awful uncomfortable, but he didn't look scared. He should be terrified. After what Will had done to him? After the way he'd made Malcolm Reynolds crumble to little bits? The man should be hiding under the table now, either that or trying some foolhardy attack. This completely cool calm was far from right.

Reynolds looked at him again, and even in the darkness of the bar Will'd swear the man was blushing. "Sorry, mister, but you're really wastin' your time here."

And then it came to Will – _this stupid wáng bā dàn doesn't even recognize me._

Will smiled. He wasn't ready to take his hand off his gun, but he slid into the booth across from Reynolds, his friendliest (and least sly) smile lighting his face.

"You got me all wrong, buddy," he said. "I ain't interested in that myself. It's just that you look a helluva lot like a guy I knew once." He grinned. "And I do mean a non-Biblical kind of knowing."

"That so?" Reynolds asked, still eyeing Will doubtfully.

"That's right. And since I don't know another soul in this shithole, and those ladies over there ain't up to wasting coin on, how 'bout we have a drink?"

Will didn't wait for a response, just waved a few fingers at the bartender. He noticed that Ginger had gotten herself close to the merc – good, she'd keep him busy and out of the way.

– – –

The big man blinked a few times in surprise, looking down at the gun in Ginger's hand then back at her face. He didn't look scared, just befuddled.

"You tryin' to waylay me?" he asked.

Ginger glanced over toward Will again, and blinked her own surprise when she saw the captain was still sitting on his ass, reclining with his elbows up on the low booth back.

"I just need to make sure you… uh…" She stammered as she watched Will exchange a few quiet words with their mark, and she nearly fell over when her partner slid into the booth and waved at the bartender.

"Make sure I _what_?" the mercenary demanded.

Ginger looked back at him, then snapped her mouth shut. This was a fine mess. Her head started telling her to get out of there, that this was some new game of Will's that she was about to get caught up in. Of late, those had a tendency to not go so well. But the booze in her blood was saying that other things ought to be paid some mind. Might have to do with the handful of meaty forearm she'd laid her left palm against.

She tilted her head and looked at the merc a bit sideways. "Just makin' sure you know how much I want that drink," she said in a smooth, flirty drawl that she didn't think could possibly be her own voice. "I'm _real_ thirsty."

The big man's face crinkled up in confusion for a second, then he broke into a grin.

"Hell," he said. "I like you. Barkeep!"

– – –

The captain offered up his first name with a handshake, which Will accepted only because both of Reynold's hands were on the table, not caressing a gun hidden in a pocket. This was some kind of truce then – a parley.

Or perhaps something more; though the glances Reynolds cast at Will were doubtful, it was the kind of distrust one stranger would feel for another in a place like this. It wasn't the bitter hatred that he should have been showing.

Will cautiously gave his name as William, watching close for a reaction. He got nothing but a nod.

"So what brings you out this way, Malcolm?" he asked.

"Hell if I know," Reynolds replied. "Guess I'm on some kind'a vacation tour. Good for my health, if you believe that."

Will laughed and looked around the place. "You got a funny idea of R and R."

"Ain't really my choice. My tour guide's got some business of her own, and wants me out of the way."

The drinks arrived. Will lifted his heavy glass mug for a wordless toast, which Reynolds accepted, though without much enthusiasm. "What brings you?" the man asked after he took a swig of his beer.

"I'm trying to find an old buddy. Guy I fought with in the war, you might say."

That made Reynolds' face light up eagerly. Unlike the Malcolm Reynolds Will had encountered some weeks ago, this man's feelings showed as plain as could be. "You fought with the Independents? I was on my way to sign up. Where you garrisoned? You seen action?"

Will covered his hesitation by taking a long drink. Either Reynolds had learned how to act, or he'd had some kind of brain twist.

"I misspeak. It wasn't a war so much as a little skirmish. You know how these border worlds are. You said you were out to improve your health. You sick?"

Reynolds drank again and looked away, like he was embarrassed. "Long story," he muttered.

"Ain't nothing contagious, I hope?" Will leaned back and put on a worried look, like he was trying to distance himself.

Like some green kid without the good sense to keep his business to himself, Reynolds fell for it. "No! Nothin' like that. There's just something with my head. I been forgettin' stuff."

Will turned to look at the bar, trying to pass it off as a little eyeing of the women. Really, he was out to hide his smile. This was too good to be true.

– – –

Ginger still held her gun uncertainly, keeping it poked into the mercenary's side even after he ordered her a drink. If she'd had any expectations as to what would come of this game she was caught in, they sure didn't include free booze when she'd already had too much.

But her gun didn't seem to bother the man; without trying to defend himself or move out of the line of her aim, he stared down at the weapon that was a trigger pull away from ending him.

"Hey – that there is one nice piece," he said, and he gave her a sharp look. "Not somethin' I expect to see round here. How's a thing like you get a weapon like that?"

She blinked and stammered. No, this gun certainly wasn't what a two-penny old whore would carry around on an Sunday afternoon. This could be a bit hard to explain….

But the merc grinned at her. "Bet it's a helluva story," he said. "Here." He lifted the drinks that the bartender had just set on the bar – no flowery girl cocktail, but a few fingers of something brown sloshing in the bottom of a plain glass. He held one out to her. "Drink up and tell me bout it."

She glanced toward Will again. He was still sitting with Reynolds, and now they had a few glasses of a frothy brew that they tapped together – Will energetically, Reynolds less so. A cold, hard lecturing voice in the back of her head told her that the real mission was now accomplished; she ought to do what she needed to grab Reynolds and get out of here. They could have the man locked up tight and this deal over by nightfall, and Will's game could be put to rest.

But what could she do, with Will acting like he was? With this large and apparently fearless (or maybe just stupid) mercenary on the watch?

"Hey – so you gonna shoot me, or you gonna relax and have a drink?" the merc growled at her. She looked back at him and took in the size of his arm one more time – not as a potential combatant, but as a man. A man who was looking at her with a sparkle in his eye, not paying any mind to the glares of the whores around them.

With a practiced hand, Ginger safetied her gun and slid it through the slit in her skirt to her thigh holster, a move that the man's cool gray eyes watched with interest. She took the drink from him and threw it back; the booze burned its way through her chest and settled into her stomach with a warm glow.

– – –

"So where you from?" Will asked as they settled into their second round.

"Shadow."

"Shadow?" That explained why Reynolds – the old Reynolds, not this one here – was such a glum guy. Shadow'd been a dead world since the war, burnt crisp because the idiots who'd lived there hadn't known to shut their mouths and accept the change that was coming. That's how Will saw it, anyway.

"How long you been gone?"

"Oh, bout a month, I guess." Reynolds took another swig of his beer and looked toward the bar. His eyes caught on something, and Will glanced over his shoulder to see what. He almost ducked away again – Ginger was drinking from a small dirty glass while Reynolds' mercenary stared hard at the booth, like he was thinking of coming over. But then Will realized that the scowl wasn't aimed at him, it was all for Reynolds.

The captain wasn't cowed; he raised his beer toward the bar with a chuckle, then took a long drink. The merc glowered, but when Ginger spoke to him he settled down and returned his attention to her.

"Friend of yours?" Will asked.

"Him? No way! I don't know a single one of these people." Reynolds' eyes roamed over the shady figures in the bar. Despite his bravado, he didn't look real comfortable. He looked out of place.

Will smirked as he guessed the cause of that. "Malcolm, you ever been off Shadow before? That you can recall?"

Reynolds looked back at him and smiled. "No, not a once."

"Quite a place to pick for your first bit a' off-world travel."

"That's what I thought. But I ain't got much choice with these folks I'm travelin' with."

"How's that?"

The drink was doing its work, and Reynolds was getting looser with his talk. "The lady in charge," he said. "She's as hard-ass as they come. Giving orders all the time and won't hear a word of argument. I'm wondering why anyone'd want to sign on with her."

"You didn't sign on? Oh right – long story. Your health."

Reynolds shrugged and took another drink. "Guess it ain't that much to tell. I got sick. These folks are tryin' to help me, cause they're friends of my ma's."

– – –

The merc tensed up when he noticed that Reynolds had gotten himself a drinking partner. It made Ginger fret for a moment, but Reynolds flashed a big smile and raised his glass, a sure sign that all was well. She wondered at that – Will had to be doing a number on the captain.

But heck, it left her free to do a number on her own man.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He turned his attention back to her. "Jayne."

"I'm Ginny." She slapped the empty glass back on to the bar. "And Jayne – I could tell you how I got my gun, but then I'd for sure have to shoot you." She smiled at him sweetly; the hard liquor had moved from her stomach to her head in a hurry.

The merc drained his own glass. "You do that, you won't be gettin' another drink."

"You think I can't buy my own?"

"What – and drink it alone?"

He put an arm around her, which was a good thing because the bar had started spinning. Actually – it was more than a good thing to be pressed up against him, somehow fitting just right into his bulky form. With his free arm, the one toward the bar, he motioned the barkeep for another round, then reached under his jacket to pull out his own handgun.

"You got a fine weapon," he said. "But ain't nothin' can touch this."

It took Ginger a few seconds to focus on the piece, given the dark unsteady state of the pub, but once she did she felt something sharp and cold cut into her. She knew this gun. Last time she'd seen it, it'd been in the dead hand of a wild-eyed half-crazed gunhand. Hank had been shot down by the same captain who was now sharing a drink with Will in this very bar.

She reached out to touch the gun – the mercenary ejected the clip and handed it over, and she turned it in her hands. He started to protest when she thumbed a hidden catch and pulled the firing mech out, but he shut his mouth when she broke the whole piece down and reassembled it in under half a minute, years of expertise winning over a mere half hour's drinking. She'd always wanted to give this thing a look, but Hank wouldn't let anyone so much as breathe on it.

"Sure ain't a weapon you see a lot of," she said as she weighed the reassembled gun in her hand. She looked up and realized that the merc was watching her close, his eyes shadowed and face tight with what might very well be suspicion.

Ginger mentally cursed herself for forgetting the role she was supposed to be playing, but then she always had been a fool for a pretty gun. She held the thing out and cleared her throat awkwardly. She'd have moved away, but he still had his left arm wrapped around her waist.

"Um… you, uh, must have your own story of how you got this bit of niceness," she said, trying to get back to flirting. It sounded weak to her own ears.

"Now, now," Jayne said as he studied Ginger, his eyes somehow gleaming in the dim light of the bar. "Play fair. You gotta tell a story to get one."

– – –

Will looked over his shoulder to check on Ginger again; what he saw didn't sit well with him. The damned woman was pressed up against the merc but had her back turned; both of them faced the bar as if they were busy with something they didn't want anyone else to see. Will wished he'd kept his mic on, cause he didn't like the idea of her having a secret.

"That non-friend of yours has some bad taste," he muttered to Malcolm.

The captain looked toward the bar. "He looks happy enough."

"With that pàng, bēi cow?"

Malcolm frowned and gave Will a sharp look, as if he was sizing him up and seeing something he hadn't before, something he didn't like. "That ain't a gracious thing to be sayin' about a lady. Nothing wrong with a curvy shape."

Will took a swig of his drink, finishing it off, and waved to the bartender for more. Really, he just needed a minute to push down his annoyance with Ginger – and with himself for letting her get to him. He'd just been gaining Malcolm's trust.

– – –

And now her real voice, the voice of Ginger Larkin, agent for a service so important that she never got a rank or title, came screaming back and told her to hightail it out of here. She'd blown her cover by breaking down that gun, a gun that not many common folk would know of. Hell, she wasn't even doing her job. She was half drunk, dressed like a whore, and pressed up tight against a man she probably ought to be arresting. Skip the arresting – this one should be put down in a dark corner, leaving the verse a safer place.

But she stayed quiet as she handed Hank's gun back to the merc, and then stood mesmerized. Jayne let go of her so his big hands could check the piece over with a tender care that didn't fit the rest of him. He didn't break the thing down completely, just popped the barrel open to blow at it, like she might have let dust get in. He loaded it again before sliding it back in his belt, then settled himself half on the barstool and looked at her thoughtfully.

She starting backing up, but one of those beefy arms reached out, wrapped around her tightly bustled waist and pulled her close again. She couldn't push away without making a scene, or that's what she told herself. It had nothing to do with how he felt against her.

He put his face close to hers and a chill went through her nethers; she hadn't kissed a man in a long, long time. That wasn't something Will had ever cared for. So she couldn't deny that she was disappointed when Jayne's mouth went right past hers to nestle up to her ear.

"I gotta tell you, Ginny," he said. "Somethin' about a lady handlin' firearms the way you do puts me in a kind'a state. Know what I mean?"

He shifted a little to face her, and she got his meaning right against her hip. He had a hand on her backside now too. A big, coarse hand, none too gentle and not at all subtle.

– – –

A better tactic was needed, Will figured. He liked the idea of getting on Malcolm's good side, of playing the friend while he lead the brain-wiped man to his fall, but it was hard to be good-humored when he watched his partner throw herself at the enemy. Ginger was plastered up against the merc now; the man was whispering in her ear, and one of her hands gripped here and there on his back, sliding around like he was a giant piece of fruit she was checking for ripeness.

Will noticed that Malcolm was frowning at the couple himself. The captain didn't like harsh talk about women, but he might not be so defensive of the merc.

"What do you suppose he's sayin' to her?" Will asked. "Guy like that's gotta have a line. Something like: 'So… you're a girl, huh?'"

Malcolm snorted. "Doubt he knows so many words. Probably somethin' more like: 'Hi. You'll do.'"

Will grinned. "Or: 'If you was a booger I'd pick you!'"

Reynolds chuckled and finished off his beer. He looked thoughtful for a minute, then he rhymed out: "'Roses are red, violets are blue, I got these funny warts, and so can you…'"

That pulled a snort out of Will. "'Now, don't worry about the missin' teeth. It just means there's more room for your tongue.'"

Malcolm leaned over the table as he broke into full-out laughter. "Or maybe… maybe Jayne'll turn on his charm. 'Howdy, ma'am. You know how to use a whip?'"

The bartender passed by and left a fresh round; they tapped their drinks together and had a pull before Will went on. "How bout he screws up a classic: 'Your daddy must'a been a baker, because you got a nice ass.'"

"Or he could go for bein' truthful. 'I ain't cleaned my drawers in damned near a month. Can I get into yours?'"

"'Hey honey, I've got a condom with your name on it!'"

"'Wanna see a trick I learned in prison?'"

"'If you won't fuck me, can I fuck you?'"

– – –

"How much?" Jayne asked, his breath tickling Ginger's ear.

"How much?" she repeated dumbly.

"It'll have to be quick, if'n you don't mind. And I can't go far. This place got a back room?"

He pulled away enough to look toward the back of the bar, and Ginger finally got his meaning. "Wait… you wanna pay me – for sex?"

His lip curled up in a sneer. "Ain't that usually how it works?"

– – –

Will kept it going: humor always was the best way to bond with a drunk. Three beers in now, Malcolm was tipsy enough, and the one liners worked wonders. After just a few minutes, William Cantone and Malcolm Reynolds were damned near brothers.

Will sobered his face and set an elbow on the table, his left hand raised high. "Hey," he dead-panned as he wiggled his fingers, "why can't you jack off with this hand?"

Malcolm got serious too; his eyes crinkled up as he stared at Will's hand and tried to guess the punch line. After a few seconds, he gave up with a shake of his head. "Why?"

"Cause it's mine, you pervert!" Will delivered, and they both broke into cackles again.

– – –

While Jayne took a second to grab the latest round from the bar, Ginger felt her cheeks heat up. God's own truth, she wasn't a bit angry. She should have been, maybe, but she looked around and saw all the other painted ladies – the _real_ whores – glaring at her for stepping in on their business, and she couldn't help but feel tickled. He'd picked her, over all those young leggy things with big eyes and long hair. He'd picked her.

She didn't know how it could have happened. "But I… I'm a…" _Dried up old lady_ she wanted to say, but her head was spinning and her mouth wasn't working so good. She looked down at her body, like the sight of her might explain what she couldn't put into words. All she could see was an eyeful of bosom piled on a cinched waist and flared skirt. She had a moment of wanting to poke her belly to be sure that was really her body.

"A handful's what you are," Jayne said. He passed her a drink, took care of his own, then set down the glasses so one of his large hands could show her exactly what he meant. "Gorramn handful of dangerous woman," he added.

"Oh, hell…" she muttered. She glanced toward Will; he and Reynolds were doubled over, making a fair amount of noise as they shook with laughter and slapped at the tabletop. That's all she could take in before Jayne pulled at her again, setting her up against him, and right then she knew what she wanted. The rest of the day's business could take care of itself; she had no idea of the going rate, but she was ready to do this big, coarse, smelly man for free.

Of course, she wasn't about to tell him that – couldn't be blowing her cover. She fixed Jayne with what she hoped was a wicked smile.

"How bout this," she said. "You tell me what you think I'm worth, and we'll go from there."

– – –

Will was having the best time he could recall in the past few years. If he played this right, he could keep it going for some time. The back of his mind was busy: if he could win Reynolds' trust for real, he might be able to lead him away. Imagine that, being best pals, right up until Will delivered him into the hands of the feds….

"Knock-knock," he said, grinning eagerly.

But Malcolm didn't take it up. He wasn't paying a bit of attention to Will, he was staring toward the door, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide like he was seeing a ghost.

Will glanced over his shoulder – then quickly turned back. _Cào wŏ_, he muttered under his breath. Suddenly, the game had changed.

The woman looked different from how he remembered; her clothes weren't fine and a hood hid most of her face, but as soon as he laid eyes on her he knew who she was. That bitch had made him look a fool. She'd played him and won, something nobody did. He'd let himself get taken out by a petite, well-heeled female who sells her body for a living. And now she was going to screw up his game. Might even ruin his chance to take the captain in, given that Ginger had moved past being any kind of useful backup.

Will checked that Reynolds wasn't watching him – a good thing, since his face had to be showing something ugly – but the man had gone to a different place entirely.

"My lord, ain't she somethin'?" Reynolds muttered.

"You know her?" Will asked.

Reynolds shook his head slowly, his eyes not moving a bit.

_And isn't that interesting_, Will thought to himself. It'd been his understanding that these two were something of a pair, and now Reynolds didn't even know her. What a chance for good times this could be…

"Well, don't bother," he said. "No offense, but a lady like that is too high up for any commoner like you and me."

Malcolm's eyes flicked to Will for just a second before they went back to the woman. "How d'ya mean that?"

Will glanced toward the door again, careful to keep his face shadowed. She was still standing there, pivoting slightly as she searched the dark room, seeming unaware of how her presence drew sidelong looks, made men sit up straighter in their chairs and slick their hair back with whatever was handy – spit or beer, mostly. Her eyes settled on the bar, on the mercenary, and she took a few slow steps his way.

"Just look at her," Will said. "She ain't prettied up like the rest of them 'cause she don't need to be." He turned back and watched Reynolds watch the whore, taking in the man's reaction to his words. "Look at how she stands, Malcolm, how she walks. She's been trained for better things. That woman doesn't belong here. She's above men like us. Men like you."

"I wonder what brought her," Malcolm said softly. "Down on her luck, maybe. Could be she needs help. She looks… lost."

Will heard the concern in Reynolds' voice. The man was still studying the bitch like he wouldn't ever look away.

Sheer disgust drove Will to speak his mind. "You never know. Could be it's all an act. Could be she's the type of woman spends a whole lotta time learning how to look high class, just so she can take more money out of a man's pocket before she spreads her legs."

Reynold's eyes snapped to Will's face and stayed there. It gave Will an uncomfortableness, like he was suddenly standing in a very bright and hotly burning light.

"Now, that's certainly not a kind way to talk about a lady," Reynolds said, his voice low and much less friendly then it had been.

"Easy there," Will said. "No call to get your back up. I'm just talking."

Reynold's eyes didn't move and for a long moment his face looked older than it had this whole time. He suddenly looked closer to the man Will had crossed paths with a month ago, and it made him want to check that his gun was still in his pocket and ready to use. It made him regret that he hadn't closed the deal sooner, just hit the confused captain over the head and been done with this. Made him think he ought to find a way to do just that, right now.

"Ain't nothing but harmless talk…" Will mumbled distantly, his mind busy. He needed to act before the whore recognized him. She'd alert the merc, and Will wasn't about to count on Ginger to be of help. His right hand tightened around his glass mug – it was heavy enough to do the job. But the booth was wide; he couldn't be sure to reach Reynolds with a hard enough blow….

The captain was still looking just as tense as Will felt. "Mayhap you ought'a learn to talk nice," the man said. "Or mayhap you should go on over there and ask the lady's pardon."

Will leaned over the table, trying to move closer, but he had to smile at the idea of how the woman'd react to an overture of apology. "Maybe I will," he said. "Maybe I'll do just that, show her exactly how much I –"

A warm, velvety voice interrupted, speaking from beside and above him.

"Mal! Thank the gods I found you!"

– – –

Inara pulled her hood over her head before she entered the saloon. It wasn't much different from the others she'd been to since she received Mr. Universe's wave; maybe it was more crowded as the late afternoon drinkers began to gather, and a small flock of colorful whores kept things livelier at the bar than the other places she'd tried.

Her breath caught at the sight of a large man standing in the middle of the group of women. No mistaking it – that was Jayne. He had several empty glasses at his elbow, and his attention was currently focused on a whore with badly dyed red hair who was pressed against him. The two were at the point where getting a room would be a service to the other patrons.

Inara's eyes didn't linger long – she saw none of the crew near Jayne. It was quite possible that he'd slipped away in search of his own entertainment, but if the mercenary was all she had, she'd make do. She moved toward him, stepping slowly and keeping her head lowered so she wouldn't attract attention.

As she walked, she checked the darkened tables along the wall to her right. She froze when she saw a man in the far booth – his posture was wrong; he didn't have Mal's cockiness and his awareness of the room. Mal would have noticed by now that she was looking at him, while this man was fully focused on his drinking partner.

But the shadowed face was so like his. She moved closer, and by the time she'd crossed half the distance she was certain. It was Mal.

She sighed in relief but then her stomach tightened with a sudden attack of nerves. How would he react to seeing her, after the way she'd left him? It wouldn't help that she was interrupting a tense negotiation – Mal was glaring at the man across from him in a dangerous way. Probably another of his jobs going sour. But it didn't matter. She had to warn him before the Alliance and their agents got to him. She pushed the hood back from her head and stepped up to the table.

"Mal! Thank the gods I found you!" She tried to keep her voice cool, but the words came out noticeably breathless. "We have to talk."

Mal looked up, obviously surprised but, to her relief, she didn't see any hostility in his face. His eyes widened, then he glanced at the other man in the booth, the bad blood between them apparently set aside by her interruption.

When Mal looked up again, his mouth curled in a warm smile. "Miss," he said politely, and he raised a hand to tip an imaginary cap. "Can I help you?"

Inara felt her mouth fall open in amazement. She had never been successful at reading Mal, but this casual greeting flummoxed her to no end.

"You can help by listening. I have to tell you…" She glanced at the other man in the booth; he had his face down, intently studying the heavy glass mug that he clenched in his hands. "…important things."

"You can start with a name," Mal said, then he held out a hand. "Mine's Malcolm."

Inara stared at him, unsure of what to do. He was smiling still, and his eyes were completely empty of recognition. It was a cruel trick for him to play. But then, she didn't exactly deserve a friendlier greeting.

The cheerful smile on his face slowly faded into something like doubt, even nervousness, when she didn't respond, but he didn't move.

"This isn't funny," she finally said.

Mal dropped his hand, looking somewhat dejected. "Wasn't meanin' it to be. Just tryin' to say hi." He looked across the table at his drinking companion and shrugged.

"Look, I know you have every right to be angry–"

He looked up at her again, his eyes full of innocent ignorance. "Angry? Do I seem angry?"

She sighed impatiently. "Fine, be that way. We still have to talk."

A second's confusion filled Mal's face, but then he smiled – another brilliant smile, lit with eagerness. "A pretty lady asks me to talk, who m'I to say to say no? Pull up a seat, I'll buy you a drink. Or, um… I guess I'll barter you a drink. Bit low on coin at the moment."

He started to stand up, then cast a nervous look toward the bar. (Inara glanced as well, and noted that Jayne was still busy with his redhead.) Mal kept to his seat, but stretched out to grab a chair and pull it over. He kept talking the whole time. "William here's a generous fella. I'm sure he wouldn't mind extendin' a friendly hand and buyin' a beer for a fine, respectable lady such as yourself–"

"Mal, why are you acting like this?" Inara interrupted

He stopped with his one-handed arranging of the chair and stared up at her. "It's 'Malcolm', and like what?"

"You're… you're not _you_."

"And, uh…" His forehead creased up. "You know me?"

She raised her hands in exasperation. "Clearly I don't!"

"Have a seat then, I'll tell you all about myself. I'll only lie when it makes me sound sexier." He patted the chair and put on another wide, friendly smile.

Realization dawned on her.

"Are you trying to flirt with me?" she asked, incredulous. "Are you seriously trying to flirt with me? Dear Buddha, I must be losing my mind…"

Mal glanced at his drinking partner, then frowned and hunched over his beer. "My mistake," he said with a discernable note of sullenness. "I didn't think it was so far-fetched. I mean – I dunno your story lady, but just cause I'm some rancher from Shadow don't mean you can't be friendly to me."

She took in a deep breath against the sting of his words. How in the world had she forgotten what it was like to carry on a conversation with this man? "Mal, this is important. Could you save the grudge for later so we can talk?" She glanced again at the second man in the booth, who hadn't moved at all. If anything, he seemed to be laughing quietly to himself. "Talk in _private_," she added pointedly.

The black-haired man raised his head slightly; she barely made out the words he muttered to Mal: "Be sure and barter the price of her _private_ services up front."

Mal's frown turned darker, but this time his displeasure wasn't aimed at Inara. She found herself studying the man as well; thick black hair hid his features, but his voice and the way he held himself were familiar…

Suddenly, rage rose in Inara, faster than should have been possible. Before she even realized what she was doing, she put a hand on the man's shoulder and pushed him back against the seat, forcing him to raise his head so she could be sure of who it was.

Suddenly things made more sense. Slightly more.

"What did you do to Mal?" she demanded sharply. She was hardly aware of the silence that fell in the bar, of the heads that turned toward her, but she saw the cocky grin spread on Will's face as his left arm lifted, and he swung the beer mug at her head. It was a weak blow and she managed to take it in the back of her shoulder – he'd have done much better to strike with his other hand. She saw why he hadn't: his right arm was busy was at his side, reaching into his coat pocket. She saw a flash of black metal; he was pulling out a gun.

Inara grabbed a handful of his hair, then yanked his head sideways so hard that he spilled onto the floor. One kick of her heavy boot knocked the gun from his hand and a second kick was aimed for his face, but strong arms wrapped around her from behind and she was lifted off her feet, her elbows pinned. She struggled against her captor with all the strength she had.

"Yesu, lady!" she heard a familiar voice in her ear. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Damnit, Mal! Let me go!" she screamed. Thankfully, Will's gun had slid out of reach under a crowded booth and he was up, on his feet and scrambling toward the door. He ran straight into Jayne, who merely shoved the man aside without hardly a look. The merc strode toward Inara and Mal.

"Jayne – stop him!" she yelled.

"Inara?" Jayne asked, ignoring her words as he stared at her open-mouthed. "That you?"

Inara tried to kick at Mal's shins with her heels, but he somehow eluded her, dancing side to side without relaxing his grip. "That man – that was Will! He's Alliance! He's an undercover Alliance agent!"

At this point, most of the patrons of the bar decided to take their leave. Jayne stood in the middle of the chaos and squinted at Inara in confusion.

She finally got an arm free enough to jab her elbow into Mal's ribs, just hard enough to wind him. He let her go, but it was no use. Will was out the door. Inara couldn't even see which way he'd gone; the entrance was now stuffed with people rushing to get out. She raised a hand to her forehead, trying to calm her breathing and focus her thoughts.

Silence gradually fell over the now nearly empty bar, and she turned back to Mal. He was leaning over a table, one hand on his ribs as he sucked in air. He looked at Jayne and shook his head, as if to say, _it ain't my fault!_

Jayne folded his arms and looked Inara up and down.

"I'll be gorramned," he said. "So you gone nuts, too?"

– – –

Ginger ran down the street, trying to catch up to Will. She made no progress – the drinks she'd had made her legs wobble all the hell over. If she'd taken the shop lady up and bought the pointy heeled boots that went with this girly outfit, she'd have broke an ankle or two on the ruts in the dried dirt of the street.

"Hold up, Will!" she called. "The lady ain't comin' after you. You're all safe now! Safe and sound!"

She had to laugh as she said that, then laugh even more when she pictured Will as a big black dog, the kind with bottom teeth that stuck out and a tough rolling gait, but now he's got his tail down between his legs and he's whimpering and whining as he gallops wildly, fleeing in terror from a neatly groomed little white poodle that nips at his heels…

She had to grab hold of a railing and sink to her butt on the dirt, laughing too hard to see where she was going. She didn't have long to rest – a hard hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

"You are fucking pathetic," Will snapped as he gave her a hard shake.

"The li'l lady bite you in the ass again, Will?" she asked, her words slurred with drink and hilarity.

He didn't answer directly, just pulled her along behind him while he muttered all kinds of things. Not nice things. Things about the worth of her womanhood and the female gender in general.

"Mr. Jayne liked me just fine," she said with a smile, then she waved at an old man who was watching them with a dour expression. "Hi sweetie!" she called with a wave. When he smiled back, she surprised herself all the more by blowing the old goat a kiss.

"Would you cut that out!" Will yelled back at her, then he lowered his voice. "You're supposed to be an officer of the gorramn government."

"Never stopped you, you hypocritical, sleazy, bullying worm! Bùyàoliăn de dōngxī!"

A sharp slap to her cheek knocked the laughter out of her, but didn't quite bring her to her senses. She wasn't sure how it happened, but Ginger found herself standing in the middle of the dusty street in her whore's outfit and red hair, pointing her handgun straight into Will's face. If that wasn't a surreal situation, she didn't know what was, but it sure did make her want to smile.

"Get this straight, Will," she said. "I'm done with you. We got a mission to complete, and we're nearly there. We'll get back to the ship, make a wave to Marone, and turn this manhunt over to them who'll do it proper. Meantime, you won't be touchin' me, and you won't be talkin' mean. I ain't dumb enough to kill a fellow officer cause I know you got all them higher-ups wrapped around your little digits, and I know how they'd come after me. But I will hurt you. Don't you doubt that I can outshoot you. I can do it sober, and I'll do it twice when I'm drunk. You got that?"

Ginger's vision was spinning, and all she could see of Will was three or four of him that kept going by and by and by... Those many Wills cast nervous looks around the street, at the townsfolk who were watching, and though all those Wills finished by fixing her with a glower angry enough to turn good milk sour, they also nodded.

"Go on ahead of me," she said, motioning with her gun. "I don't trust you one tiny bit."

If she hadn't been feeling so bizarre already, seeing Will comply like a meek little lamb would have done it. She followed him back to their ship; once aboard, she hurried to lock herself into her tiny bunk. She worked a thick wire into the lock on the hatch to be sure the sneaky bastard would stay out, then somehow wiggled out of her tight dress and fell into her bunk with a satisfyingly deep breath.

He'd call it in, she told herself. Will'd let Marone know that they'd found Reynolds. After what she'd just pulled, he had to be eager to end this and part ways. She may be drunk off her tail, but she'd meant every word she'd said to him, and he had to have seen as much in her face. She wasn't his partner any more, not in any sense of the word. This job was over.

And when they got back to the Core, she was going to retire. She'd go ahead and buy a shack on a Border world, then she'd sit on her porch and shoot at squirrels all day. Maybe she'd get lucky and find herself a simple, rough local fella to scratch the itch from time to time. Someone like that Jayne, who didn't pretend to be anything fancy and wouldn't bother to hide what he's really thinking.

Ginger smiled into her rouge stained pillow and slid into dreams about a big burly mercenary with blue-grey eyes and strong, coarse hands.

– – –

Translations  
Dŏng ma: Understand?  
wáng bā dàn: SOB  
pàng, bēi: fat, vulgar  
Cào wŏ: fuck me  
Bùyàoliăn de dōngxī: you're shameless and less than human

– – –

_Book III currently in production… Much focus on Mal. Much focus on Inara. And – believe it or not – actual resolution! Whoa._


End file.
